With a Song in my Heart
by snooky-9093
Summary: Chapters based off of popular song titles from WW2!
1. Der Fuerher's Face

_I have at least 5 stories taking up space in my document folder. And I'm stuck. LOL. So, thank you to Belphegor for mentioning story prompts. I came up with mine while listening to music on my IPod. You see, I'm a huge fan of 1940's music, as well as standards like Frank Sinatra etc. I had my Ipod on shuffle and the Mills Brothers popped up. So here we are...my prompts are from my collection of WW2 songs. Enjoy!_

_"Der Fuehrer's Face" _

_recorded by Spike Jones and his City Slickers_

_Hide it in plain sight_. Colonel Robert Hogan tried not to stare at the photo of Hitler hanging slightly askew on Klink's office wall, but he found it hard to take his eyes off the madman responsible for his current predicament. Hogan's new job description-courtesy of the Luftwaffe-Senior POW officer of Luft Stalag 13, a small camp filled with enlisted men. Not being one to sit idly by and concede that his personal war against the Nazi's was over, Hogan began to plot his escape the moment he set foot in the compound. However, plans change. He now found himself the leader of a search and rescue operation run from a growing network of tunnels located underneath the camp.

His communications' man, Sergeant Kinchloe, had suggested placing a bug in the Kommandant's office. At first, Hogan thought the idea was nuts, and somewhat suicidal. But after getting to know the Kommandant on a more personal level, Hogan told his men to start working on the plan. So far, the equipment was working nicely (aside from the few instances of mistaken coffee brewing; almost defeating the purpose of the coffee pot receiver). The testing phase was over, and now Hogan had to find a spot to plant the listening device.

Once Hogan had settled into camp routine, he quickly realized that Klink constantly walked on eggshells. The German officer was afraid of his own shadow, and even more spooked by the Gestapo and the S.S. For some reason, no one in the Stalag appeared to pay much attention to the picture of Hitler. It was as if they were too frightened to even look at the photo the wrong way; fearing that somehow, someone in Berlin would sense the wrong vibes and come sweeping down on Klink, taking away his cushy command, as well as his life.

Hogan slouched in Klink's extra chair, trying not to fall asleep as he listened to the Kommandant's ramblings. He glanced at the photo again. "Ahem."

"Yes, Hogan. What is it?"

"Old bubblehead."

"Hooogaaan! Do not show any disrespect to our Fuehrer, or I'll have you thrown into the cooler," Klink warned, reminding himself that Hogan needed to be tamed, lest he mouth off to a visiting general and be shot. Lowering his voice, Klink said, "Besides, you never know who might be listening in."

"You mean this room might be bugged?" Hogan whispered, feigning total bewilderment and shock.

"The Gestapo. The S.S. Other Kommandants. You know, they're jealous of my record." Klink leaned forward. "Actually, I have the office swept for bugs at least once a week."

_Damn. _Hogan crossed his right leg over his left and leaned forward in the chair. "I'm sure you do. At least you don't have the fox guarding the hen-house. You're too clever for that."

"I don't understand your statement." Klink was fluent in English, but now and then he got lost in the idioms, acronyms, and puns of both the American and British versions of the language.

"You have to implicitly trust who is doing the sweep. I wouldn't ask the local Gestapo man to check for bugs he's planted. Like a fox will attack the hens and have them for dinner," Hogan explained.

"I see." Unfortunately for Klink, he did see. "My camp communications specialist takes care of it. He's trustworthy."

Hogan nodded. "I'm sure he's found plenty of bugs." _I doubt you are even worth a second look._

"Come to think of it, since I've been here, he has discovered nothing."

Hogan shook his head. "Well, that's odd. Anyway, I meant to tell you, your picture of Hitler; it's crooked."

Klink looked over at the wall. "I'll fix it later."

"I'll get it." Hogan jumped up and attempted to straighten the photo. "Look at that. It won't sit right." He took it off, eyeballed the wall and then the picture, and placed it back on the hook. "That's better."

"Thank you." Klink appeared despondent.

"Something wrong, sir?"

"I'm wondering about my office. Now that you mention it, it is very odd that nothing has been found."

Hogan shrugged. "Maybe you should find someone else to do the sweep." He snapped his fingers. "We could do it," he said.

Klink laughed. "Prisoners? Impossible. How do I know that you wouldn't plant one yourself?"

Hogan laughed in return. "Good one, sir. We could. But where would we get the equipment?"

"We discovered two radios last week," Klink countered.

"Yes, but they didn't work." Hogan grinned.

"You are trying to trick me, Colonel Hogan. Believe me, I'm not that gullible."

"You're right. I'm just trying to get more privileges for the men in the camp." Hogan wiped his finger on Klink's desk. "Dusty. Tell you what, sir. I'll have two of my men clean your office once a week…say…for…an extra hour of electricity on Saturday night. And while they do that, they'll check the office for bugs. Deal?"

"No. It is totally and completely against the rules to have other prisoners in the office. You know that. All contact is solely between the Kommandant and the Senior POW officer. Besides, they'll steal something, or discover something that's top secret."

"Lock your files in the safe. And I give you my word as an officer and gentleman that these two men will not plant any bugs, or remove anything from your office. _Kinch will plant the bug and Newkirk will open the safe. LeBeau will take pictures and the stuff goes right back in. So, technically, I'm not lying_. Hogan stood up, and pushed the chair back. "Think about it, sir. You see, if you're comfortable and secure, we are as well."

"Your plan, Hogan, as well-intentioned as it appears, is absurd. No other POW camp would allow prisoners to work inside a Kommandant's office. In fact, you may not know this, but in most camps, the prisoners' barracks and compound are completely fenced off from the camp administration." Klink pointed to the door. "But thank you for your concern. Dismissed."

Hogan picked up his paperwork, and saluted. He left the office, winked at Helga and exited the building. The fact that his plan had not yet succeeded did not bother him. He had thought it up on the fly, so one could not expect his mark to accept the con so easily. He readjusted his bomber jacket, and strode across the compound towards his barracks, exchanging salutes and greetings along the way.

"We need to get hold of a Gestapo bug," were his first words upon entering the hut.

"Come again, sir?" Kinch asked.

"I want some bugs planted in Klink's office. And we're going to find them. You see, Klink's communications man hasn't discovered any. He checks the office once a week for listening devices. I've already made Klink paranoid."

"Not hard to do," Newkirk chuckled.

"If the office is already being checked, our plan is shot." Olsen looked dejected.

"Not entirely," Hogan replied. "We convince Klink the Gestapo is planting bugs and that his man is deliberately not finding them. We are going to go in and clean his office once a week. While there, we check for listening devices."

"Not finding our own of course. But others on occasion?" LeBeau asked.

"Exactly," Hogan replied.

"Great. So when do we start?" Olsen asked.

"Once I convince him to let us clean the place. He hasn't quite bought it yet."

One of the other prisoners, a quiet gunner from Scotland, hopped down from his bunk. "Um, sir?"

"Go ahead, MacCrindle."

"I know the communications man pretty well. He speaks pretty good English, and before the war, he liked playing around with model trains. So we have something in common. He's not a bad guy for a Kraut. I would hate to see him…well…you know."

Hogan rubbed his chin. "I'll take care of it. LeBeau, get out a message through the dogs. See if the Underground can get us some genuine Gestapo bugs. Kinch, I think I have the perfect place to plant ours. It's in the picture of Hitler hanging on the wall. Newkirk, take Kinch over tonight so he can take a look. Once we get those Gestapo bugs, we'll plant them, and then we'll take it from there."

The colonel and his team had a week to think over their harebrained scheme. As Newkirk commented to LeBeau, it had all the makings of a disaster, but at least they would have fun before being shot. Once the bugs arrived, Kinch and Newkirk carefully planted a few of the devices around the office, being careful to not be too obvious. Their own device went into Hitler's photo. It was now up to Hogan to seal the deal.

"Something bugging you this morning, sir?" Hogan asked Klink at their next scheduled meeting.

"No, why?"

"Seems you've been a little jittery lately, that's all. Can we start with the work details? Barracks six hasn't had a chance to…" Hogan sneezed.

"Gesundheit."

"Thank you. Hope I'm not catching a cold. Or it could be the dust. I'm allergic. As I was saying…Achoo." With that sneeze, Hogan knocked his papers off the desk. "I'll get those." As he bent down, he paused. "What is this?"

Klink stood up and looked over. "What is what?"

Hogan reached underneath the desk, pulled something off, and stood up. "This thing that looks like a bug."

"Give me that?" Klink grabbed it from Hogan's hand, and then slowly sat down in his chair. "It's a Gestapo bug. But the office was just swept several days ago. And no one has been in here. Guards are posted outside day and night."

"I think you have a problem, Kommandant." Hogan began to walk around the office. Without asking, he started to check the walls, behind the safe, and underneath the furniture. He stood on a chair and removed another bug from the overhead light.

"My communications man is Gestapo," Klink stated. "I haven't said anything bad," he continued in a slightly panicked tone.

"Not necessarily Gestapo, sir. You said these are the type of bugs they use?"

Klink nodded.

"But you've trusted this man since you've been here?"

Klink nodded again.

"Is it possible that he has no choice in the matter? The Gestapo doesn't exactly play by the rules, you know."

"What are you saying?"

"In my country," Hogan said, "you're innocent until proven guilty. What if he's as much of a victim as you are? He would be too afraid to say something to you if that were the case. What I would do is, don't say anything to him, or the Gestapo. Just relieve him of that particular duty. If he's really Gestapo, he won't complain, because that would be suspicious. If he's not, and the Gestapo has something on him, they may not be able to do anything to him either, because that would tip you off. My guess is they'll move somewhere else. Although, you could never be sure."

"Unless…your arrangement. The one you suggested last week. Hogan, do you think your men might be able to conduct a thorough search for listening devices when they come to clean?"

"I'll make sure of it. For the extra electricity on Saturday night."

"Done. But they must do a complete and professional cleaning job. Or the privileges will be withdrawn."

"Very good, sir. I'll get them started on it right away. It will be Corporals Newkirk and LeBeau. They need the discipline."

"Very well." Klink seemed satisfied. "You were speaking about Barracks six?"

The men in Barracks two were in Hogan's office listening in on the conversation. At the conclusion, they all broke out in applause and began congratulating Kinch for coming up with the idea, as well as his skill with electronics.

"It's Colonel Hogan who deserves it," Kinch said, although he was secretly pleased with his success, and with the reaction of his bunkmates. There was no discrimination under Hogan's command. Just teamwork.

Olsen laughed. "You know what's so great about this? We're sticking it to Hitler. I know it's just a picture, but it's just so gratifying."

The whole barracks laughed along with the American sergeant. For a brief moment, their captivity and the bad tidings of Nazi victories were forgotten, as they focused on this small victory. Sticking Hitler in the eye with an Allied listening device -in Der Fuhrer's face.

* * *

From _Time Magazine_. (online story featuring top 100 songs)

"It takes real talent to be perfectly silly. Comic bandleader Spike Jones (not the Jonze with a _z_) and his City Slickers turned the big band on its head, playing truly zany parodies of well-known tunes. Jones colored the arrangements with slide whistles, bulb horns and other sound effects. In a Jones tune, there was rarely a need for more cowbell.

His big break came in 1942, when "Der Fuehrer's Face" hit the airwaves, poking fun at the Nazis at the height of World War II. Oliver Wallace wrote the song for a Disney project during a time when the studio was a major cog in the war-propaganda machine. Wallace arranged it as an oompah band opener for a Donald Duck cartoon, which put the unintelligible fowl in a nightmarish place called Nutsiland. Even as the Disney artists were inking and painting cels for the fever dream of a cartoon, Jones and band released their version, giving the Germans the old Bronx cheer with an instrument he called the birdaphone. It was a major radio hit.

The cartoon — filled with caricatures of Axis power figures and effeminate jokes that wouldn't pass in our politically correct times — came out in 1943 and replaced the birdaphone rasps with bleats of tuba. It went on to win an Academy Award for Best Animated Short (the only win for a Donald Duck cartoon). But it was the Jones version that soldiers would sing to boost morale, blowing raspberries right in _der Führer_'s face."


	2. Till Then

_For Hildegaarde, who also loves the Mills Brothers!  
_

"_Till Then"_

_by Eddie Seiler, Sol Marcus, and Guy Wood_

_The Mills Brothers version was recorded on February 27, 1944, and was released by Decca Records._

Sergeant Arthur Greer, formerly a gunner in the Eighth Air Force, now an involuntary resident of Luft Stalag 13 under the command of Colonel Robert E. Hogan, sat on the ground, slumped against the wall of the prisoner's mess. It was a beautiful day, and most of the prisoners were enjoying the sun, or getting some exercise. They joked with their buddies, read mail, exchanged news from home, and showed off photos. Greer sat alone. He was in no mood for companionship this morning.

_Till then, my darling, please wait for me  
Till then, no matter when it will be  
Some day, I know I'll be back again  
Please wait, till then  
_

Greer held in his hand a photo and a letter. After carefully folding the letter and putting it in a pocket, the sergeant stared at the photo for over an hour. Several times, a lump formed in his throat, and several times, the young airman was forced to wipe tears from his eyes. On occasion, another prisoner would glance in Greer's direction, hoping to engage the man in conversation, but one look at the sergeant was enough warning, and the prisoner knew to leave the other man to his solitude. There were both unspoken rules and silent signals known by every man in the camp, and on mail day, these were scrupulously followed. _How could everything change so fast? _Greer silently cursed every man responsible for the war and his captivity; from Hitler on down to Colonel Hogan. He realized blaming the American officer was ludicrous; after all, Colonel Hogan was already in Stalag 13 when Greer was shot down, but he was in no mood for justifying his feelings. Once the true nature of Stalag 13 was revealed, the colonel had, as was his custom, offered to let Greer go. Greer thought quickly and logically about his odds and agreed to stay. He spoke no German, and at the time, staying seemed safer than taking the perilous underground route back to England. Besides, he was needed. _Colonel Hogan__ should have insisted. After all, if he ordered it, I would have gone. _

_Our dreams will live though we are apart  
Our love, I know it'll keep in our hearts  
Till then, when of the world will be free  
Please wait for me_

She won't wait. She can't wait.

"_So you have mining experience?"_

"_Yes, sir. In Pennsylvania." Greer was proud of his roots and his heritage. He was a bit nervous at the moment, as the colonel's top-notch reputation was well-known throughout all the American bases in England._

"_Dangerous work," Hogan smiled, putting the young man at ease._

"_Yes, sir. But so is being a gunner, sir."_

_Hogan nodded. "We could use your expertise, Sergeant. It's your choice whether to stay or go. No one will think anything less of you, if you decide to leave. Just remember the risks of leaving, and the risks of staying."_

"_I'll stay, sir."_

Greer sniffed, and raised his head to look at the compound. _I chose duty over you. I could have been reassigned_, he thought. _They wouldn't have sent me out again over Europe_. That wasn't normally done. _I could have stopped home before heading for the Pacific, _he realized_. Who knows what type of leave I could have had? Maybe I could have stayed state-side? I've missed so much. It's totally my fault. _Like many others before him, guilt wormed its way into Greer's mind.

_Although there are oceans we must cross  
And mountains that we must climb  
_

_Duty, honor. Why me? There are plenty of fellas out there that could have done this. Ones with no ties. Like Parrish, the rear gunner on his crew. He had no siblings, no girl. His parents were dead. So was Parrish. He hadn't made it. _ Greer glanced at the photo again and looked up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Greer spotted Colonel Hogan and Corporal Newkirk heading in his direction. There was no reason for the two to engage him in conversation, but in a reflexive act of self-protection, he pulled his legs up close to his body, wrapped his arms around them, and sunk his head onto his knees.

Parrish had gone down with the plane. So had the captain, the radio operator, and the navigator. They had ties. Their photos were plastered all over the plane. The captain's younger sister and his folks. The navigator's girl back home. The British girl that stole the heart of the radio operator.

_I know every gain must have a loss  
So pray that our loss is nothing but time_

"It's not too late," Greer whispered. "I'm still here." He pulled himself to a standing position and found himself face-to-face with Corporal Newkirk.

"Too late for what, mate?" The Londoner offered up a broad grin. "Cigarette?"

"No, thanks." Greer saw Colonel Hogan look in their direction and then walk away. "Did the colonel tell you to come over?"

"No. Did it on my own. There's a horseshoe game being organized, if you care to join us. You didn't answer my question."

"I'd rather not talk about it, Corporal."

"Suit yourself, Sergeant." Newkirk began to walk away. Not wanting to answer to any more prying, as one fellow prisoner was enough, Greer followed.

"Got a letter from my sis, today." Newkirk held out a photo. "Name's Mavis. Now don't get any ideas. She's spoken for. I worry about her all the time. And my mum and dad, as well. They're in London. Although, that isn't as bad as being a civilian over here under the Krauts."

Greer looked at the photo. "She's pretty. Don't have to worry about me." He showed Newkirk his hand. The wedding ring on his finger glinted in the sunshine.

Newkirk nodded. "Thought so. You left your ring in our barracks that one time, when you were working in the tunnels. You have any photos on you?" Newkirk asked gently. After a few seconds of silence, Newkirk put his arm around Greer's shoulder. "I've been here a lot longer than you, mate. I've been through a lot of mail calls. You can talk about it when you're ready, but in the long run, it will always come out."

"It's not what you think, Newkirk."

"Someone sick, then? I can talk to Colonel Hogan. We've sent a few back for emergencies."

"Not that." Greer sighed. He now realized word would eventually get around that he had been upset by personal news. He pulled the letter out of his pocket, and handed the paper and the photo to Newkirk. The corporal studied the photo; then read the letter.

Newkirk looked up at the sergeant, noticing the tears welling up in the American's eyes. "I see," Newkirk said. "There's nothing I can say, can I?"

Greer shook his head. "I've missed so much. The first time she rolled over. The first time she crawled. Her first word. And now she took her first steps. I'm never going to get that back."

"She'll get _you _back, mate. That's what's important. And when you get home, she'll know you're her Dad."

_Till then, let's dream of what there will be__  
__Till then, we'll call on each memory  
Till then, when I will hold you again  
Please wait till then_

* * *

_After I sketched this chapter out, I recalled the MASH episode with a similar premise. B.J. is upset that his daughter, Erin, is growing up without him (season 8, episode 6. "Period of Adjustment")_


	3. Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive

"**Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive**"

music by Harold Arlen and the lyrics by Johnny Mercer, published in 1944

Mercer recorded the song, with The Pied Pipers and Paul Weston's orchestra, on October 4, 1944. It was featured in the movie, _Here Come the Waves._ The song was recorded by many artists.

**_Chapter written by Snooky-9093 with Missy the Least, who provided top-notch advice, editing, some rewrite, and very sharp scissors! Thank you so much. And also thanks to my sister, ColHogan, and Konarciq for their input._**

"You've got to accentuate the positive  
eliminate the negative  
Latch on to the affirmative  
But don't mess with mister in-between"

Jason Cassidy was not the most hated prisoner in Luft Stalag 13. That dubious distinction belonged to Jack Williams, an unpleasant no-good cheater, rabble-rouser, and most unexpectedly, a traitor. Jack Williams was no longer in residence. _(1)_

Jason Cassidy didn't cheat. He wasn't a trouble-maker, and he certainly would never, ever, dream of letting the cat out the bag. There was no reason to write Jason up on report, send him packing, or give him a time-out in the cooler. Despite these attributes, Jason was not well-liked.

Jason Cassidy was a kvetch. Now Cassidy himself would never agree to such a characterization, mainly because, being a good Irish Catholic from South Boston, before landing in Stalag 13, he'd never met anybody who knew enough Yiddish to use the term correctly in a sentence.

Now of course, this is the Army; complaining is every enlisted man's birth-right.

But Jason Cassidy took complaining to a whole new level; it wasn't a simple mutter, an occasional grouse. Oh no, Cassidy built monuments, skyscrapers, odes and paeans to the inedible food, the rough living, the bad weather, the need to know German if you wanted to move up in the organization...in short, to every not good thing that happened on a daily basis in a POW camp.

In sum, Cassidy was an artist.

This constant complaining, and the atrocious effect it had on morale, finally led Captain John Mitchell (2) to Barracks Two, in order to complain to Colonel Hogan about everyone else complaining to him about Jason Cassidy's complaining. Colonel Hogan was usually pretty busy plotting operations, sabotaging German infrastructure, rescuing downed airmen and coddling the Kommandant. He left daily operations to Mitchell, who dutifully dealt with duty rosters, acclimating new arrivals, conducting personal hygiene talks, personnel problems and other such tasks.

This division of labor usually worked, but Mitchell was at wit's end as well as the end of his authority. Transfers between barracks had to be approved by the Senior POW first, before it could be brought to Klink for final action. Cassidy had already been transferred three other times; his reputation preceded him wherever he went, and not one other barracks was willing to deal with the resident wet-blanket.

Unfortunately, Hogan was in no mood to deal with the morale-killing complainer either. Along with some of the worst conditions of the war thus far, their 'Outside Man', Olsen, had been shot and wounded while on a mission and was recovering at Schnitzer's place. That he would recover completely within a month was the good news; that they would be down a critical man for all that time was the bad.

With everything else on his mind, Hogan was more than willing to toss this hot potato back to his deputy; once Mitchell explained his problem, Hogan said:

"DWI"

"Sorry Colonel, I didn't get that, 'Driving While Intoxicated'?"

"Nope, Deal With It."

If it were only that simple.

* * *

"I know things are bad, Hogan, but it is in everyone's best interest to keep a stiff upper lip," Klink said, channeling the British.

Hogan let out a small smile. "Didn't know you admired the British, sir."

"They do have their admirable qualities," Klink replied. He was majorly depressed, although he wouldn't admit that to Hogan. He knew without a doubt that the war was lost, and he was frightened at what could become of his command, his camp, and even his prisoners. He just hoped the Allies got here before he was ordered to fight for the camp, or for his own life. "I'm ordering you to improve morale, and to stop everyone's complaining, or there will be consequences." The idiocy of this statement was lost on Klink, but not on Hogan, who burst out laughing.

"Hogan! Hooogaaan!" Klink became infuriated with the lack of respect shown to him by the senior POW officer; not to mention that he didn't get the joke.

Hogan's stomach hurt, and tears were rolling down his face. Finally, he composed himself and stood up straight. "I can't think of any consequences that you could give us that would make any difference, sir. We're already freezing, hungry and bored. And a lot of the newer prisoners are scared. They don't understand that you are a humanitarian of the first order."

"I could have you or your men thrown into the cooler," Klink threatened, ignoring Hogan's compliment.

Klink's non-response to Hogan's flattery did not go unnoticed by the colonel. "We'll freeze to death. According to the Geneva Convention, you need to provide a minimum of standards. Besides can you imagine the paperwork?" Hogan was treading very close to the edge; but for some reason, he didn't care. Nothing Klink could do to them now compared with the reality of what could actually happen if the unthinkable occurred. And Klink's reason for punishing the prisoners was ludicrous. Even Burkhalter would have something to say about it. Hogan took a few deep breaths, calming himself down. "I promise I will do my best, sir. But I'm not a miracle worker." Hogan put on his best innocent face, the one with the puppy-dog eyes that won him the hearts of many of the female persuasion.

Klink didn't fall for it. "I meant what I said, Hogan," he said, sighing. "Your job as Senior POW officer is to control your men." The Kommandant rose from his chair and headed over to his sidebar, where he poured two glasses of sherry. He handed one to a grateful Hogan, who drank the liquor in one gulp. Although the liquid was not of the best quality, he appreciated the warmth as it slid down his throat. "Now," Klink continued. "I have heard from a reliable source that there is one specific prisoner causing dissension among your rank and file. Sergeant Cassidy."

"Yes, sir," Hogan replied glumly. "I've had him transferred to different barracks more than once. He's a real drain on morale."

"I'll have him transferred to another stalag…" Klink clearly was not interested in that solution, but thought he would offer it to the colonel. "Not that he's done anything that warrants such a drastic measure."

"Absolutely not," Hogan quickly stated. "No one is to be transferred," he added in a tone not familiar to the Kommandant. There was a fire in Hogan's eyes that Klink had also not experienced.

"I don't recommend it," Klink quickly said.

"Glad we agree, sir. For what it's worth, Cassidy is a good soldier. He just has this really annoying habit of not knowing when to shut up. Everyone has a right to be depressed, but his grousing adds so much salt to the wound, we're in danger of shriveling up." Hogan silently applauded himself for the metaphor.

"I don't understand the word grousing, Hogan. And on top of that, you're abusing the English language with ridiculous metaphors." Klink let out a small smile, which Hogan returned.

"Grousing means…griping, bellyaching, complaining, being a kvetch, grumbling."

"Like a grouch?" Klink asked.

"Exactly."

"It seems to me that Sergeant Cassidy is this camp's leading authority on complaining." Klink paused for a moment. "Of the prisoners, that is. Believe me, some of the guards could best him, but they usually keep it to themselves."

"We have freedom of speech, sir."

Klink ignored Hogan's jab. "Don't interrupt. He is the authority. The prime suspect as you will. What happens when you tell him to stop?"

"I read him the riot act, but after a while he goes back to his old habits." Hogan paused as there was knock at the door. "Come in," he said, not waiting for the Kommandant to give his permission for whoever it was at the door to enter.

An out-of-breath Schultz entered the office. "Pardon the interruption, Kommandant, Colonel Hogan, "

"What is it, Schultz?" Personally, Klink didn't mind the interruption. He was getting tired of the topic of conversation, and Colonel Hogan was annoying him more than usual.

"I…there's…I …"

"Spit it out, Schultz," Hogan said impatiently.

"Barracks 6 and Barracks 8 are fighting. And the guards can't break them up." In an aside to Hogan, Schultz whispered. "I don't think the fight is on purpose."

Hogan shook his head, and headed for the door, Schultz trailing behind him.

"Schultz, you have the guns. Shoot in the air." Klink showed no intention of getting up and seeing to the fray.

The sergeant turned and faced Klink. "But, Kommandant. If we fire in the air, the bullets still have to come down, and someone could get hurt."

"Hogan, go handle it. That's your job. And I assure you there will be consequences." The situation with Cassidy and morale now forgotten, Klink took his seat behind the desk, and assumed the position he was in before Hogan's arrival.

By the time the colonel arrived at the scene, the mêlée resembled a baseball fight. Lots of pushing, shoving, and yelling, but fortunately, no serious injuries were apparent. Unfortunately, several other barracks had become involved. At this point, about 50 men were milling around or taking part in the skirmish. Several officers and a few barracks chiefs were trying to pull people apart, while the guards stood idly by, watching the fight with interest, showing no signs of wanting to break up the entertainment.

"Someone care to explain what the hell is going on here?" Hogan's voice was calm, but loud enough for most of the participants to hear. They all stopped whatever they were doing and separated themselves. "See Schultz? That wasn't hard, was it? Close your mouth, or you'll catch flies."

"It's too cold for insects, sir." This comment came from a Barracks 7 resident who was brushing snow off his thin jacket. Several of the men chuckled.

"Well." Hogan folded his arms across his body and waited for an answer. To his surprise, Kinch and Carter, the two most unlikely to be involved in an unplanned fight, climbed out from the bottom of the pile. Kinch's clothes were soaked through with mud and snow, and it appeared that he was suffering from a mild nose bleed. Carter's hair was completely mussed, and he was favoring his right hand. "Well, I'll be…"

"Things sort of got out of hand, Colonel." Carter looked quite sheepish, although a bit satisfied.

"It was a rec hall scheduling conflict," Kinch said, as if that excused everything.

"And you both took someone's side."

"No," Carter said. "We tried to break it up, but you know how these things go."

"Everyone back to the barracks," Schultz ordered. "Raus, raus." At that, the men looked at Hogan, who nodded, and before the colonel had a change of heart, the men scampered. All that were left were Carter, Kinch, several other officers, Wilson, and surprisingly, Cassidy, who witnessed the incident, but didn't take part.

Schultz asked Hogan, "Colonel Hogan, aren't you going to punish the men?"

"I think they were letting off some steam. Aren't you going to punish your guards, Schultz?"

Schultz thought for a moment. The guards had taken advantage of Schultz's order to the prisoners, and they too had disappeared. "Nein. Well, maybe later. We do need some discipline."

Hogan agreed. He looked over at Cassidy, who was heading back to his barracks, and sighed, recalling the conversation he had with Klink. "Klink's miffed about morale, and you know who," he informed everyone.

"Cassidy?" Schultz had heard. "He complains a lot. Some of the guards were tired of dealing with him."

"Did you say, were, Schultz?" Wilson asked.

"I did say were, and no, I didn't have them transferred to another barracks. One prisoner, who is a kvetch, is not an excuse to switch people all over the place." Schultz looked at Hogan, who reached into his pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar. "That involves too much paperwork, and it gets confusing. And then everyone would want to be switched. It's like that game, musical chairs." Schultz deftly grabbed the chocolate.

"What are you saying?" Hogan asked.

Schultz chuckled. "You are a good officer, Colonel Hogan. But I deal with five children, a factory full of workers, and my wife. I know you are having trouble with Sergeant Cassidy. But the trouble isn't with him. It's with you."

Hogan raised his eyebrows.

"All of you. Sergeant Cassidy will never change. He was made that way. Maybe he had a tough life, or his parents complained, or it's in his head. It doesn't matter. _You _have to change. Sometimes the worst part of stress is how you react to it." He took a bite out of the candy bar. "Oooh. wunderbar." After licking his lips, he continued. "Do you understand what I am saying, Colonel Hogan? Carter? Captain Mitchell?"

"Cassidy is hard to ignore Schultz," Kinch said.

Schultz shrugged. "You can't get away from him. What can you do? Send him away? Put him in the cooler? He's a good man, just very annoying. We all have enough to worry about."

"He's not worth it," Wilson stated.

"No, it's not worth complaining about his complaining. On the scale of things, it's ridiculous," Hogan said, as he was beginning to understand Schultz's point.

All the men muttered in agreement.

"We're never going to get rid of the stress. The only thing we can do is manage it better," Wilson said, now realizing that he and others in camp needed to take up this cause, in order to let Hogan and his team do their job.

* * *

Several days later, Olsen was well enough to return to camp. Upon his return, he discovered that despite the cold, the bad rations, boredom, news from the front, and the usual constant complaining from the camp's resident whiner, that morale and behavior seemed much improved.

"There was a huge fight," Goldman explained. "It kind of let off steam, you know. And Colonel Hogan didn't lose it. I mean he told everyone later to cool it, but no one got in trouble. And he convinced Klink that it was healthy. Oh, and you know Cassidy?"

Olsen groaned.

"He's still up to his old miserable self, but we all had meetings. He's not going anywhere. No one is allowed to be transferred to another barracks unless it's for a really good reason. And now everyone is basically ignoring his gripes."

"That can't be easy," Olsen replied, surprised.

"Well, I guess you nod, and listen and yes him to death, and eventually he stops. He's not really a bad guy, once you get to know him. Get him talking about ham radios or model trains, and he'll never shut up. But at least he's talking and not just griping. We all got stress; it's just how you manage it." Goldman slapped Olsen on the back.

"Sounds like the whole camp's been to see a psychiatrist." Olsen said to Goldman, although he was pleased to find the atmosphere much improved. Olsen was a bit freaked out by psychiatrists, but understood that occasionally they came in handy.

"Yeah. You know, I knew this psychiatrist, an older guy. I met him at a base hospital in England when I got hurt. He was visiting and we ended up next to each other at a service a rabbi put on for us. Nice doc. His name was…" Goldman racked his brains for a moment. "Freedman. Captain Sidney Freedman." He gave us patients and the docs and nurses a good recommendation, although it does sound weird." Goldman chuckled at the memory.

"What was that?" Olsen asked.

"He said, and I quote: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, take my advice. Pull down your pants and slide on the ice.'"

Olsen laughed along with Goldman. "Seems that doc knows his stuff. That fits this insane asylum to a 't.'"

* * *

Cassidy…well, he was never able to follow the psychiatrist's advice and he never stopped being a kvetch. After all, it was in his nature, and as Wilson said. "A zebra can't change his stripes." But, he did find that the men in Stalag 13 associated with him more often, and for that he was both confused and grateful. And Goldman? He met up with Dr. Freedman (now a major) again, while they were both serving in Korea.

(1) "There's One in Every Crowd"

(2) "Mitchell was featured in the episode "The Big Gamble." I also used his character in my story, _TARFU._

_Sidney Freedman, played by the late Allan Arbus (1918-2013), was one of the best known "visiting" characters on MASH. (CBS 1972-1983) His famous quote comes directly from the series._

_Goldman…He is one of the boys in barracks two, and is played by the actor Roy Goldman. Some Fan fiction authors have dubbed the HH character Goldman, because he was known as Roy Goldman in MASH. According to IMDB, he passed away in 2009._

_Mercer got his inspiration for the song from a Father Divine sermon, (Mercer was attracted to "black" music and culture, and at the time, Father Devine was quite popular). If you pull up the lyrics, you'll see that it sounds like a sermon. It's one of the first examples of Positive music. (Posi music) It also "preached" to those at the home front during the war. I think it fits the time period perfectly._


	4. Mairzy Doats

_Mairzy Doats_

based on the episode, "The Missing Klink"

Wolfgang Hochstetter trudged home after a long, tiring and stressful day. It was Friday, and all he wanted to do was forget about the week and take a much-needed break. Strange events, as usual, centered around Stalag 13 again dominated his work and his reports. Fortunately for Hochstetter, General Burkhalter agreed to overlook some of the nonsense, of which Hochstetter was an enthusiastic participant, and sign off on the major's less-than-truthful recounting of Klink's kidnapping and the red-herring that followed.

After changing out of his work clothes, Hochstetter prepared a simple supper of bread, cheese and fruit, poured a glass of wine and set it down on the table next to his favorite easy chair. Glancing at the clock on the mantle, he walked over to a bookcase and shoved it aside. Beneath the bookcase was a floorboard which, when opened, revealed a small cubby, suitable for hiding a few items. The Gestapo major removed an illegal radio receiver and placed that on the table as well. He replaced the floorboard, shoved the bookcase back to its spot and then settled down in his chair, ready to listen to the BBC.

The radio had been confiscated from traitorous civilians, but the receiver took a detour on the way to the evidence locker. Hochstetter realized that the confiscated receiver was much stronger than his simple household Volksempfänger, and convinced that it was his duty to continue his investigations while off-duty, the Gestapo agent took it home. Although he realized German intelligence agents were constantly monitoring foreign networks, Hochstetter was hopeful that one day he would be able to decipher some of the cryptic messages sent out over the BBC to underground members throughout occupied Europe. Perhaps one of those messages might be for Papa Bear-Hogan-or even that elusive British spy, Nimrod. For after all, he was a trained cryptologist, and soon he hoped his skills would be truly rewarded when he discovered and decoded messages that would lead to the capture and downfall of the most wanted men in Germany.

Hochstetter coughed and headed off to the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and gargled in an attempt to get the taste of paper out of his mouth. He stared at his image in the mirror and fussed with his mustache for a moment. _I'll drink until its gone_. The memory of the humiliation still bothered him. He returned to the small living area; prepared for a relaxing, quiet and uneventful night.

"Ah," Hochstetter sighed as the wine slid down his throat. "Good year," he commented as he fiddled with the dial on the radio. This time of night, he could look forward to perhaps a classical concert, an opera, or if he was lucky, a radio mystery. Without access to the daily schedule, the programming would be a surprise, but that was fine. He looked forward to the broadcast with anticipation.

Tonight, before the announcement-Hochstetter made sure a pad of paper and pencil were at the ready, so that he could jot down notes-he would be treated to popular tunes requested by the boys at the front.

Not interested in developing theories on morale, based on music requests, the agent closed his eyes and listened to the music. Soon, without realizing it, his toe was tapping along with the sounds of Vera Lynn, the Andrews Sisters and Glenn Miller. He quickly stopped. After all, this music was decadent and not suitable for a member of the Nazi party. Some of the artists were even Negroes and Jews.

"And that was the hit, _String of Pearls,_" the announcer said. "Next, a request from the boys from King Company, 361st Infantry Regiment. This novelty song, composed in 1943 by Milton Drake, Al Hoffman and Jerry Livingston, was first played on radio station WOR, New York, by Al Trace and his Silly Symphonists. The Merry Macs version hit No. 1 on the pop charts in March. Here you go boys!"

_Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey_

_A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?_

This would be the last evening that Hochstetter listened to the banned BBC broadcasts. He was no longer interested in trying to decipher the messages coming over the airwaves. He stood over the smashed and pummeled remains of the captured radio receiver, admiring his handiwork. "Bah." Hochstetter gulped down the rest of the wine straight from the bottle, gave the radio one last kick, and went off to bed.

* * *

NEWKIRK!

Everyone in the common room stared at the British corporal. He shrugged, as if to say, "Search me, whatever it is he thinks I did, I didn't do it." Newkirk walked over to Hogan's office and poked his head in. "You needed something, guv'nor?"

Hogan turned off the radio and walked over to the British corporal. "Don't give me that innocent what did I do face."

"Pardon?"

"I was just listening to the BBC," Hogan stated.

"Didn't know we were expecting a message tonight, sir."

"We weren't. Sometimes I like to listen to the music. They were playing requests."

"That's very nice, sir. And?"

"Guess what they played after _String of Pearls_?"

"_In the Mood_?"

Hogan gave Newkirk a look that distinctly said he was not in the mood. Newkirk backed away a few paces.

"Seems the King Company, 361st Infantry Regiment sent in a request for a novelty song. This ring a bell?" Hogan handed Newkirk a piece of a paper.

"That's quite a coincidence, don't you think, sir?" Newkirk laughed.

"I don't believe in coincidences. The 361st Infantry Regiment is bogged down in Belgium; freezing in foxholes. I doubt they'd be calling in requests." Hogan folded his arms and waited for Newkirk's response.

"Well, I certainly didn't call in a request. Blimey, how could I, sir? And even if I did, why would I say it's that regiment? I don't know where you keep the organization charts." Newkirk looked and sounded hurt. "You don't think Hochstetter and Burkhalter heard that do you?"

"I hope not." Hogan sighed. Once pressed, Newkirk usually owned up to his pranks. And the corporal did make some sense. "You're right. I'm sorry I accused you. There's a first time for everything. Maybe this time it's a just a coincidence."

"Thank you, sir." Newkirk left Hogan's office, shaking his head. "For once, I really didn't do it," he informed the rest of his bunk mates. "But I have a guess who might have."

That same evening, another person in Germany was listening to the BBC. This individual enjoyed that evening's program immensely. In fact, the person was pleasantly surprised that the request they had phoned into the BBC for a specific novelty song made it on the air. Laughing, they sang along with the song, confident that several other important people who would give anything to know his or her identity would also be listening.

* * *

Notes courtesy of Wikipedia:

"The **_Volksempfänger_** (German for "people's receiver") was a range of radio receivers developed by engineer Otto Griessing at the request of Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels.

The purpose of the _Volksempfänger_-program was to make radio reception technology affordable to the general public. Joseph Goebbels realized the great propaganda potential of this relatively new medium and thus considered widespread availability of receivers highly important

The Nazi government took a strong interest in promoting Germanic culture and music, which returned people to the folk culture of their remote ancestors, while promoting the distribution of radio to transmit propaganda. The Nazi government had an obsession with controlling culture and promoting the culture it controlled. For this reason the common people's tastes in music were much more secret. Many Germans used their new radios to listen to the jazz music hated by Hitler but loved all over the world.

In 1938 Nazi Germany passed an official law on Jazz music. Not surprisingly it deals with the racial nature of the music and makes law based on racial theories. Jazz was "Negroid"; It posed a threat to European higher culture, and was therefore forbidden except in the case of scientific studies.

The **Swing Kids** (also known as Swing Youth) (German: _Swingjugend_) were a group of jazz and swing lovers in Germany in the 1930s, mainly in Hamburg (St. Pauli) and Berlin. They were composed of 14 to 18-year-old boys and girls in high school, most of them middle or upper-class students, but with some apprentice workers as well.[1] They admired the British and American way of life, defining themselves in swing music and opposing the National-Socialist ideology, especially the _Hitlerjugend_ ("Hitler Youth")"

_King Company, 361st Infantry Regiment was used by the creators of the TV show Combat. The fictitious squad was part of King Company. The 361st is a real regiment._


	5. Oh How I Hate To Get Up In the Morning

"**Oh! How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning**"

by Irving Berlin. Originally written in 1918, it was performed in three different Broadway shows, and by Berlin in the 1943 movie, "This is the Army."

_I've been a soldier quite a while_  
_And I would like to state_  
_The life is simply wonderful_  
_The Army food is great_  
_I sleep with ninety-seven others in a wooden hut_  
_I love them all_  
_They all love me_  
_It's very lovely but_

_Oh!How I hate to get up in the morning_  
_Oh!How I'd love to remain in bed_

_For the hardest blow of all_  
_Is to hear the bugler call_  
_Ya gotta get up_  
_Ya gotta get up_  
_Ya gotta get up this morning_

_Someday I'm going to murder the bugler_  
_Someday they're going to find him dead_

_I'll amputate his reveille_  
_And step upon it heavily_  
_And spend the rest of my life in bed_

_[alternate lines in 2nd chorus:]_  
_And then I'll get that other pup_  
_The guy who wakes the bugler up_

* * *

Karl Langenscheidt felt blessed. He was not a fan of the Nazi regime, but like some of his fellow soldiers, he realized early on that it was much safer to stay quiet and remain under the radar. Terrified of being sent to the front, Karl won the proverbial lottery (for a soldier, that is) when he was chosen by a haughty Oberst to report to the new prison camp being built outside of town. He patted himself on the back for paying attention in school and practicing his foreign language skills.

He took to his assignment and quickly found himself promoted to corporal. He didn't mind his posting. He had a dry place to sleep (although the guard barracks was long and a bit drafty), and three square meals a day. (Although he was getting a bit tired of potatoes. Sacrilege for a German, that is. But considering his family almost starved when times were hard, he couldn't complain.)

Despite his shyness, he got along well with the rest of the guards, most of whom were also grateful that they had not been sent to the front. Even the Kommandant, Wilhelm Klink, took a liking to the young man. And Karl's immediate superior, Sergeant Hans Schultz, treated him like a son.

There was one thing, however, that Karl despised...getting out of bed. He was never an early riser. His father, who claimed his son would sleep through a steam locomotive running through the house, had to pour cold water on Karl's head to get the boy out of bed. Since Karl grew up on a farm, this was a problem. A smart lad, Karl wished to enter university with the intention of acquiring a degree in accounting in order to have a career with normal non-farm hours. Sleeping past seven was a luxury he had never experienced. Unfortunately, he was drafted. During boot camp, he was constantly receiving demerits and unsavory work assignments due to his ability to sleep through every conceivable noise. In fact, this was the only thing he excelled at. Karl could sleep anywhere and on anything. His aversion to arising was cured by his squad; out of desperation-for they were being punished as well-they got hold of as many pots and pans as they could and formed their own percussion section directly over Karl's head. After that, Karl got up; although he swore he had a bit of a hearing loss. Compared to the permanent assignment he feared he would get, boot camp was short and relatively safe. Karl figured he would be too terrified to sleep on the front, and that his addiction to sleeping-in would be cured.

But Stalag 13 was tame, and once assigned there, the man went back to his old habits. (How could he not?) His barrack mates literally had to drag him out of the cot. What was worse, roll call for the prisoners was before the sun came up, and since he was in charge of several barracks, he had to get up and out even earlier.

"Karl." Private Krauss, one of Karl's closest friends at camp, shook the corporal's shoulder. "Ya gotta get up." Karl groaned and rolled over. Krauss made another attempt. "Ya gotta get up. It's morning."

"Go away." Karl was nice and cozy and warm. It was still dark outside, and he had no intention of interrupting his dream.

"Karl, I can't keep doing this every morning. You're gonna make me late. And if I'm late, those clowns in Barracks 12 won't get up either, and then we'll be late for the Kommandant, and you know what that means. And Schultz is getting mad."

Karl opened one eye. Schultz was mad? At him? That was distressing. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Damn war." Karl was convinced that one of the reasons everyone was so angry and shooting at each other was because everyone was forced to get up before the sun rose. "Should fight wars on banker's hours." He fell out of his cot and on the floor. Rolling over, he came face to face with a pair of very large boots. "I'm up, Sergeant."

Schultz sighed. "You're lucky I haven't put you on report. Normally, I see nothing, but you are going too far, Karl."

"I'm sorry," Karl apologized…again.

"I have to take you off your barracks. You'll be walking the perimeter and taking your turn in the guard towers."

Karl cursed his affliction. He was now officially demoted, not by rank, but by duty. His prisoners would be the first to notice, and word would make its way around camp. He felt horrible; for himself, and for disappointing the kind Sergeant-at-Arms. That morning, as he passed his clipboard over to another guard, the one now in charge of his barracks, he vowed to somehow redeem himself and get back his post. But how he would accomplish this was a mystery.

Two weeks into his new assignment, Karl was walking along the perimeter (plodding was more like it) when he noticed the little Frenchman from Barracks two engaged in what seemed to be suspicious behavior. Eager to make points with those above him, Karl stealthily approached the prisoner, who was kneeling down by the fence and shockingly appeared to be digging in plain sight. Karl tapped him on the shoulder. "What are you doing here?" he asked, all the while wondering why he was the only guard who seemed to notice something amiss.

The little Frenchman looked up; surprisingly no fear was etched on his face, just a slight hint of amusement.

"I'm digging. What else would I be doing?"

Karl knelt down, noticing the rudimentary tool the prisoner was using. "Give me that. Prisoners are not allowed digging tools of any sort."

The prisoner handed it over without a word, and then stood up, brushing the dirt off of his clothes.

"I hope you aren't planning on digging under the fence and trying to escape." Karl noticed a few other guards heading his way. He waved them off. First, he didn't want to share his catch with any of the others, and second, he kind of liked the little Frenchman, and he didn't wish to see him get hurt.

The prisoner laughed. "In broad daylight and with that. Don't be silly. Look here." He knelt down and pointed. "This spot is shaded, and it's damp. There's probably a leaky pipe underneath here. Perfect for growing mushrooms. I was getting some soil samples. If we could get the right...what do you call it? Your English is better than mine."

"Fauna?"

"Exactly. We could grow mushrooms; and maybe over there, where it's sunny, tomatoes or onions. Who knows?"

"You can't grow vegetables by the fence." _Something is fishy here_, Karl thought.

"And why not?" The prisoner drew himself up to his full height. When he looked up at the corporal, he rubbed his neck.

"What's your name?" Karl asked. "I will have to write you up."

"LeBeau."

"If you want to explore the possibility of starting a prisoner's vegetable garden, you need to get permission from the Kommandant." Karl never noticed how the French corporal had maneuvered him around so that he was not facing the fence. "I'm sure he would allow it, but not by the fence."

LeBeau frowned and then sighed. "I'll have to go through channels. That could take a while. You know, there are mushrooms growing in the woods. I make the most delicious omelettes. Ask Schultz."

_So Schultz is taking bribes. Interesting. And somehow he got his prisoners fresh eggs_.

"Say, Langenscheidt. How come you're on this detail? You're too smart. What happened?" LeBeau began walking away from the fence, while Langenscheidt and his long stride quickly caught up

"I was demoted because…promise you won't laugh."

"I won't laugh, mon ami."

"I've slept through too many alarms. Can't get up in the morning. I can sleep through a steam train in my living room, my father always says."

LeBeau chuckled. "The Boche army is like any other. Tell you what. I'm only doing this because you seem nice for a German guard. Take my name off the report, and I'll help you get up in the morning. I've got younger brothers and sisters, and my family was in the restaurant business. Getting up early is in my blood. Maybe you'll get your post back." LeBeau winked. "I can talk Schultz into anything for an apple strudel. But don't pass that around."

The next day, Karl began his cure. With LeBeau's help, he had received Schultz's blessing (after all he was kind-hearted and he treated Karl like a son). Karl met with LeBeau on one of his breaks, and together they went into the guard's mess.

"Why are we here?" Karl asked as he wrinkled his nose at the horrible odors coming out of the kitchen.

"Well, what you put in your stomach, affects your health. Energy, L'amour, sleeping. First. I would stay off caffeine."

"But why? Wouldn't that keep me awake?"

LeBeau shook his head."You don't want that. Caffeine is a drug, non? You want to fall asleep faster, and quicker. That way you'll have enough good sleep, and wake up more refreshed. Stay away from chocolate at night."

"We don't get much chocolate," Karl grumbled. "And I don't have any trouble falling asleep."

"Hmm." LeBeau scratched his chin. "Well then. You may be one of those lucky ones that sleeps like a log." He laughed. "Many people say sleeps like a baby. That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Have you ever seen a baby sleep? Up every two hours. The slightest thing wakes them up. Silly saying. Well, try the food cure. And no liquids before bedtime."

Karl listened to LeBeau and paid very close attention to what he was eating and drinking. Sure enough, he had more energy, less heartburn, and he fell asleep even faster. But unfortunately, he still was dead to the world when it was time to get up. Frustrated, he ventured where he shouldn't have gone, and entered Barracks two. This time, the RAF corporal Peter Newkirk took the young man under his wing and offered his advice over a game of gin.

"Where I come from," he said, "it's always noisy. Lorries, taxis, street mongers, all hours of the night. I had to share a bed with me brothers, and then had to get up for school." Newkirk frowned at the memory. "Not there anymore. Your bombs blew it to bits."

Karl swallowed. "Um. Sorry."

"No need. Not your fault and no one got hurt. My records went up with it. That's a blessing, I think. So you can't get yourself up in the morning." Newkirk dealt out the cards. "LeBeau's food cure…old wives tales. We drink tea, and that has caffeine. Morning, night. When it's hot, cold. Makes no difference."

Karl put down a two of diamonds and picked up a card. He was in enough trouble already, so fraternizing with the prisoners was the least of his worries. Now he had been sent up to the guard tower, which was worse than walking the perimeter. It was freezing, and his uniform could not keep him warm against the windchill. To make matters even worse, he was afraid of heights.

Newkirk picked up the card. "You have a lady in town. When you get free time, you know…getting some kanoodling…nothing better for what ails you."

The German corporal turned beet red. "No. I um, should go. We can both get in trouble if we're seen playing cards together." He turned over the chair in his haste to get out of the hut, leaving a smiling Newkirk and a disapproving LeBeau in his wake.

"What did you do that for? You're not dealing with a Frenchman."

"Well, Louis. Your cure didn't help the poor lad now, did it?"

Karl hurried over to his barracks, and curled up on his cot. For once, he couldn't sleep, as his brain was a muddle of thoughts. Fearing his career as a Stalag guard was on the line, as was his life…after all…how many demerits could one soldier have before being sent off to the front, he racked his brain for an answer.

The answer would come from the most unlikely of sources. It was a gray, damp, and dreary afternoon, when Karl was sent into the Kommandant's office to pick up posters that needed to be distributed throughout the camp. He tried hard not to blush when the pretty young secretary handed him the envelope and a very large stapler.

"I haven't seen you recently," Helga said as she handed the corporal a box of staples.

"I've been taken off barracks duty," Karl replied softly.

"Yes. I remember filing the paperwork. That's a shame. You're a wonderful barracks guard. I hear the prisoners miss you," she whispered. "Don't repeat that." Helga's dimples showed as she pouted and put her finger to her lips as the two shared their own special secret.

"Thank you."

"Perhaps we can figure out a way to get your posting back," Helga said nonchalantly.

"You know why I lost my post?"

"Of course." She leaned forward. "I know everything that goes on in this camp. Well, almost everything. I used to listen to American music," she admitted. "Long before the war. And I think I have the cure. Give me a few days?" She winked.

Karl nodded, and hastily left the office, wondering what song Helga listened to, and if, indeed, she spoke the truth about finding a cure. Several days went by, and while Karl didn't forget his chat with Helga (who would?) he found himself wondering if she meant what she said.

She did.

Karl was dead to the world after a long day marching through the woods, and a long evening freezing up in the guard tower. The loudest, shrillest noise he had ever heard passed through his eardrum and into his subconscious, causing him to wake up suddenly and fall out of bed. He sat up straight, covering his ears, breathing heavily as he tried to get his bearings.

Crawling over and righting himself, Karl stared at the four guards staring back at him. In their hands were four of the shiniest bugles he had ever seen. "What are you doing and where did you get those?"

"A present from an angel," said Krauss. "Figured you couldn't resist our musical interlude."

"You sound like a bunch of cats in heat," Karl said loudly; his ears ringing, he could barely hear himself speak.

"Well, we haven't had musical training. But we got you up, didn't we? In fact, I think we are going to use these for the entire camp! What do you think?"

Karl thought that if the rest of the camp had to suffer, he would be ostracicized for the duration of the war. "No. Don't do that," he warned.

Krauss grinned. "All right. Whatever you say, and besides, any military base needs bugles. Don't you agree?"

Fear and out-of-tune brass were both great motivators and Karl was cured within a week. The buglers took lessons from another guard, and reveille became a little more tolerable. They then formed their own small band. And once more prisoners arrived at the camp, and the Red Cross packages and gifts began rolling in...well, the prisoners also formed their own band. Soon, the instruments were being featured at concerts and variety shows; enjoyed by both Allied prisoners and the Germans. As for Karl...he was transferred back to barracks duty, and on occasion, he assisted the Kommandant when Schultz was unavailable. A short while later, Helga found a more confident corporal perched on the corner of her desk. She offered him a big smile.

"Congratulations. I see you have been returned to barracks duty."

"Yes. And I have to thank you for your help. Where did you get those instruments?"

"Let's just say, I acquired them from people who could no longer use them. They knew they could trust me with certain items and that they would be used for a good cause. And that was you." Helga patted his hand. "The camp is a much nicer place with music, don't you think?"

"I agree," Karl replied, wondering if there was an outside chance that he and Helga might, someday, be able to take their relationship to another level. "Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything."

"That's beautiful." Helga looked at Karl in a strange sort of way, causing him to feel both thrilled and a bit uncomfortable.

"It's Plato," he said.

"Langensheidt!" the door opened and Schultz poked his head in. "What is taking you so long? Hello, Helga." Schultz smiled at the secretary, and then noticing the look on the Helga's and Karl's face, he paused. "The Kommandant is in town, and I have to go pick him up. I'll be gone for at least a 1/2 hour."

"But, I was supposed to pick him up," Karl protested.

"Help the Fraulein with her filing. You're good at putting things in order." Schultz winked. "I see nothing," he said as he left.

"Do you know any more sayings?" Helga asked as she handed the corporal a large stack of prisoner cards that needed to be filed.

"Yes," Karl replied happily. He was now a bit more optimistic about his chances with Helga. "I'll start with Shakespeare."


	6. In the Mood

_In the Mood_

When you hear the words swing or Big Band, what's the first song that comes to mind? Well, for me…it's _In the Mood_. The most well-know version was recorded by Glenn Miller, and it was also featured in the movie, _Sun Valley Serenade_.

_Thanks to Dust on the Wind for her musical expertise, and to Jennaya, Ruth, and Missy the Least for their input._

_HhHhHh_

Robert Hogan was content. It was a lazy Sunday morning, and he was primed for a second cup of real coffee while he read the_ Sunday New York Times._ Carrying the hefty package out to the back porch, he gazed at the water lapping at the boat dock for a moment as he set down the paper and coffee mug on the small table next to a chaise lounge. Watching the gentle movement of the small sailboat was relaxing. It was an invitation to take out his new prized possession later that day. He would be alone, which he didn't mind—although he enjoyed taking his wife through the canals of the south shore of Long Island out to the Atlantic Ocean—he craved solitude. After years of military service and as a prisoner of the Germans, privacy was valued and savored. His wife was on a weekend trip to Manhattan with friends; leaving Rob home alone with his thoughts and the dog.

His pet had followed the colonel outside and sat down next to chaise, placing its large head on Rob's lap. Panting, it looked like it was smiling at its master and the pure enjoyment of being outside on a beautiful day.

"You want to get up here, don't you, Ginger?" Rob rubbed the dogs head. "Sorry. You're too big." He reached into his pocket and handed over a biscuit. The dog trotted away, tail wagging, settling down to enjoy the treat.

More than an hour later, Rob was about to tackle the Arts and Entertainment section, when he remembered to look at his watch. "Damn." His contentment now fading away, he looked down at Ginger. "Sorry, girl. Time to go inside. Company's coming." The large mix tilted her head in sympathy, and then followed her master into the house.

The home was tidy and organized; being in the military, and living in a small space located in a "jail" as he frequently liked to point out, Rob was constantly cleaning and straightening. His wife was not as organized, but he overlooked that one small fault, as the two were madly in love, and after the hardship of years past, little things just didn't matter. The back porch led into a small but cozy kitchen. Rob stopped to put on a large pot of coffee. He took down a few mugs and plates, in case his guest was hungry. "Always good to be prepared," he told Ginger. "Never know what's going to happen next." Walking into the living room, he straightened out the magazines on the table, checked himself out in the mirror that hung by the stairs, sat down, and waited.

The doorbell rang promptly at 10:00 am. The dog barked, startling the colonel, who had unexpectedly dozed off. "Right on time. One point in the man's favor."

Rob opened the front door.

* * *

His visitor had left the city with hours to spare. Unfortunately, he was too early, so he waited in his car for close to 45 minutes before pulling into the driveway. He took notice of his surroundings, not missing anything. The garage door was closed. The lawn was neat and trimmed. The grass along the sidewalk and driveway was edged. Several maples shaded the front yard. Azaleas lined the walk leading up to the house, a small brick cape with waterfront property in the back. Smoothing his uniform, the captain rang the bell. He heard the barking of what seemed to be a large dog; several moments passed and then the door opened.

"Colonel Hogan. I'm Captain…"

"No formalities," Hogan interrupted. "I'm a civilian now."

It was obvious that the retired colonel was not pleased to see him, but this didn't faze the visitor. "May I come in?"

"Uh, sure. What the heck. You want some coffee? That's Ginger," Hogan said pointing to the dog. "She's friendly."

"Thanks. Black is fine." The captain held out his hand. Ginger took a sniff; satisfied, she walked over to the fireplace and claimed the rug.

"Have a seat." Hogan walked into the kitchen, leaving the visitor alone in the living room.

The captain took the opportunity to take a quick tour around the room. The latest copies of _Life _and _Time _were on the coffee table, alongside the Sunday paper. Photographs adorned the end tables and mantle. Several family photos, as well as wedding pictures, and a photo of Hogan in his dress uniform were on the end tables. The captain walked over to the fireplace and glanced at the photos. A black and white picture of Hogan standing by his B-17 included his crew. The captain knew five of those young men didn't survive. A model of a B-17 was next to the photo. The name Goldilocks had been neatly painted on the side. He noticed the bombs designating the number of successful missions were not painted on the model. He filed that bit of information away for later contemplation. He was about to look at the next photo when he heard Hogan coming.

Rob returned to the living room with a steaming mug. His visitor was seated in one of the armchairs positioned opposite the sofa. "Have a good look around?" he asked as he handed the captain the mug.

The captain chuckled. "Nothing gets past you. And please call me Sidney."

Rob sat and took a good long look at the captain. He was thin and middle-aged. Unfortunately, all he was told was that an army psychiatrist was coming by this morning. A name would have been nice; Hogan would have made some phone calls to get some background on his visitor, but he made an educated guess that the doctor had probably enlisted in the late 1930's or early 1940's."Okay, Sidney. Go for it. Fair warning. I'm not changing my mind. Call me Rob."

Sidney grinned. "All right, Rob. I'm not here to get you to change your mind." He leaned back in the chair and crossed his right leg over his left. Taking a sip of the coffee, he placed the down on a coaster. "Good. Thanks."

Rob nodded. "One. I don't believe you. Otherwise, why would they send you? And two..." He leaned forward. "Two generals, one senator, a member of Truman's cabinet, and a couple of high-level spies…British and American…couldn't make me change my mind. Good thing this isn't Russia, isn't it?" Hogan laughed. "I wouldn't have a choice."

"No, you wouldn't. So, how are you doing? I have to ask that. I'm a psychiatrist, you know."

"Fine…considering. I like the quiet. I go to work…it's not a bad commute to Idlewild. And I get to come back to a home-cooked meal and a comfortable bed. Oh, and no one's shooting at me."

"A lot of returning soldiers, and liberated POWs can say the same thing, Rob. Frankly, you strike me as someone who enjoys danger; elaborate planning, maybe a bit of adventure."

"You've read my file." This was a statement, not a question. "Look, Sidney. I didn't set out to be a spy. It sort of fell into my lap." Rob thought for a moment. "You know how in certain events, everything has to have gone wrong or go right in order for the event to happen? Like the Titanic. If it hadn't have been so cold, they wouldn't have hit the iceberg. If they had just put in enough lifeboats…"

"I get the picture."

"So I get to this stalag. The camp was designed poorly. It used to be a vacation camp for Hitler youth or something like that, and the buildings weren't raised. Makes it easier to dig tunnels. There were woods that were never torn down. The guards weren't the best soldiers money could buy. Our barracks guard was friendly, and most importantly, the Kommandant was an idiot. Things fell into place by accident. I was able to recruit some good men, who had the skills I needed. But you know the story."

"It's amazing you pulled that off without espionage training. And you all survived."

"I would rather not have been shot down. I'm a pilot, not an espionage agent. They seem to forget that. We got some training in bits and pieces. Once we made contact with the Underground, we were able to get some help, and London sent some people in every now and then. I'll tell you the same thing I told everyone else who's come here to get me to sign on the dotted line. I'm done. Most of the time we were all terrified, and we were still prisoners. Things could have gone sour really quickly."

"But that could have happened on your bombing runs."

"That's what I signed up for. And we had some control. Not that I enjoyed it. Each time we went out, a lot of people got killed. Airmen, innocent civilians." Hogan paused, staring blankly for a moment. "So Doc, am I a basket case for turning down a promotion?"

"No." Sidney replied. "I think you are perfectly normal. Have you stayed in touch with some of the men under your command?"

Rob rose from the couch and pulled a few photographs down from the mantel. "This is my crew." He handed the photo to Sidney. "Five were killed in the plane. I was specifically targeted by the Luftwaffe.. This German colonel became a general because he figured me out, and was waiting. Got him back, though. He showed up at camp one day, and got right in my face…he ended up in an Allied prison camp."

"How did that happen?"

"I stole his plane.

"How did you manage that? Never mind. And who's in that other picture?" Sidney asked.

"My main crew at the stalag." Rob stood over Sidney and began putting names to faces. "This is Carter."

"The explosive's expert. He doesn't look that dangerous."

"Smart as a whip, but innocent. Loved explosions, which was a little scary sometimes. He's okay. He's going to pharmacy school now. This is Peter Newkirk, and Louis LeBeau. And Kinch. The best radioman I've ever seen. In another world, he would still be in the army, commanding a unit."

"You're preaching to the choir, Rob." Sidney shook his head and took another sip of coffee.

"Olsen's in the back. He spent half the time outside of camp. Don't ask why. And these other guys; over there standing in the second row. They had to put up with a lot. Late nights. Watching the door. Thinking on the fly. Great bunch."

"One of the reasons why the brass wants you back. You can think on the fly."

"Well, Sidney. I'm happy working with other pilots and engineers at the airport. I don't miss the excitement. Want to see the rest of the place?" Rob asked, changing the subject.

Sidney filed away the quick change of subject and the talk about the plane crew for future reference, and said, "Sure."

"Follow me."

Rob led the psychiatrist into the finished basement. An unfinished train platform in early stages of construction was set up on one wall. A drum set and a stereo unit were on the opposite side.

Sidney smiled. "I was wondering where that was."

"You play?" Rob asked.

"No. I'm tone deaf." Sidney laughed. "But, I'd love to hear you play."

Hogan's face lit up. "All right." He walked over to the set, sat down and began warming up. Within minutes he was beating out a catchy rhythm. Sidney took a seat and listened, enjoying the music. There was a joy in the man's playing. Rob finished with a flourish, tossing one of the drumsticks in the air, expertly catching it as it came down. "Want to try?"

"I told you, I have no musical ability."

"Scared?"

"Nooo."

"Sit here," Hogan commanded.

Sidney obeyed, and maneuvered himself uncomfortably on to the stool.

Rob handed him the drumsticks, showing Sidney the proper way to hold them. After Sidney was comfortable, Rob moved away. "Okay, just start tapping your foot, and lightly hit this drum right here. Whoa. You're not beating a carpet. Go a little lighter. That's it." Hogan kept time by clapping and soon, Sidney was able to maintain a rhythm. Rob then began beating out his own melody on the bongo drum. "Try and keep up with me. Okay. We're going to change beats." Soon they were both working in unison. After a few minutes, Rob stopped, watching with satisfaction as his pupil continued.

"Amazing," Sidney said. He put down the stick, rubbed his shoulders and then shook out his hands. "That's a workout. I really didn't think I could actually do that!"

"You weren't that bad. I'm not going to practice any medicine, so don't ask." Rob laughed.

_I can see how he could get men to do extraordinary things, _Sidney realized.

"You were responsible for a lot of men. At the 504th, at the camp. You feel responsible for getting some of the men in your crew killed." Sidney waited for anger or silence; however, the colonel's reaction surprised the doctor.

"Doesn't take a rocket scientist or a psychiatrist to figure that out, Sid. It hurts. A lot. I have nightmares. I talk about it with my wife, my friends who were there. Despite what you think, that's not why I resigned. And that's not the reason I've turned down all those bigwigs trying to change my mind." Hogan walked over to the record cabinet, chose a 45 and put it on the turntable. "Do I really need a reason?"

"No. But it would be great if I can go back to those bigwigs with a final answer." Sidney sat back down in his chair and waited for an explanation.

"Sometimes over-planning and over-analyzing can bite you back. It helped get me captured. In this case, their over-analyzing is a waste of time. It's not that complicated. I'm tired of war, tired of fighting. I want to try something new. I was an army brat, a career military man. I want to settle down. Not every colonel wants to be general. Not every war hero wants to get more medals. The agency can find other spies; the Pentagon can find other generals. I'm happy where I am."

"Fair enough," Sidney replied. "I will tell them in my report, that you are satisfied with your new career, that you have shown no signs of mental problems and that in my professional opinion they should leave you the hell alone. But if you ever want to talk about anything, I'll leave you my number. Deal?"

"Deal." Rob went back to the drum set. "Do me a favor and start the record."

"Sure." Sidney tuned on the record player and placed the arm on the 45, laughing as he noticed the title.

"Thought you would appreciate that one." Hogan picked up the drumsticks, and again, in pure joy, began keeping time to Glenn Miller's "In the Mood."

* * *

Sidney Freedman is best known for his appearance in the TV series, _MASH_. He was a major in the series.

Idlewild was the common name of the NY International Airport located in Queens, NY. It was changed to John F. Kennedy International Airport in 1963, after the president's assassination.

More about "In The Mood" from Songfactsdotcom and other internet sites.

_"In The Mood" is an expression that indicates a desire to have sex. It's pretty innocent now, but was a little racy at the time. This song was written by the Tin Pan Alley composers Joe Garland (music) and Andy Razaf (lyrics). It was first given to Artie Shaw, but as the songwriters' arrangements was too long to record (over 8 minutes), he never used it, and the song was then given to Glenn Miller. Miller, who was an arranger himself, made new arrangements to the song and shortened it. This was based on a song called "Tar Paper Stomp" which was recorded in 1930 by Joseph "Wingy" Manone, who was a bandleader from New Orleans._

_Glenn Miller`s version of IN THE MOOD spent 12 weeks at No. 1 in the spring of 1940 and was later elected to the NARAS Hall Of Fame." _


	7. There'll Be Bluebirds Over

_"There'll be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover"_

_Written in 1941 by Walter Kent and Nat Burton_

Scores of liberated prisoners of war, hoping to get a glimpse of freedom, crammed the guard rail on the open deck of the ship carrying them from Calais, France to Dover, England. Some were Americans; others were from the British Empire... Australia, Canada, India. The majority were heading home…to Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and England. These were the healthiest of those liberated. Many were left behind to get much- needed medical care before sailing to England or straight on to North America. These men began their recovery in Lucky Strike camps on the French coast, or in hospitals scattered throughout Western Europe and occupied Germany.

The close to one-thousand liberated men from Luft Stalag 13 were on this ship. Their trip to their home countries would have to wait until the debriefing in London was completed. A few were left on the continent, too sick to make the voyage, but the those on the ship roamed the decks, smiling and enjoying their new-found sense of safety. Others enjoyed the refreshments provided by the Red Cross, ignoring the warnings from the medics to not overindulge.

Carter was standing over by a ladder, eyes closed, savoring the fry cake and the best cup of coffee he had ever had in his entire life.

Newkirk poked LeBeau. "Look at him. He looks like he's in ecstasy."

"After all that good food I cooked for him," LeBeau said in mock jealousy. He wasn't angry. He'd be doing the same. "How's your tea?"

"Best cuppa I've ever had." Newkirk deftly stepped aside to allow two other men to get past. They were from a British army brigade, and one of them, upon hearing Newkirk's accent, turned.

"East End, Amhurst Road?"

"That's right, mate," Newkirk answered.

"Same here! How long you in for? I'm David Bellamy." The Londoner held out his hand.

Newkirk shook the man's hand and introduced himself. "Peter Newkirk. Since Dunkirk. Got shot down at the start."

The lad's eyes widened. "Blimey. Sorry. Got caught in Belgium, last winter."

"Not to worry," Newkirk replied. "Oh, this is my buddy, Louis LeBeau. Met him at camp around the same time."

LeBeau nodded. "I need to make sure Andrew doesn't get sick." Sure enough, Carter had gone back for more donuts. "You catch up, Peter."

"Multinational camp?" Bellamy asked. "We never saw them from the other countries. We were all separated."

"We had a small camp, a decent Kommandant…decent for a German, that is, and a top C.O. Not to say, I'd rather be elsewhere. Wasn't fun. But a lot had it worse."

"What camp was that, then?"

"Luft Stalag 13. Near Dusseldorf. Most of us are on board."

"You all deserve to get home right quick, then?"

Newkirk nodded. "We all deserve it."

A commotion near the bow got their attention. They hurried over to see a crush of mainly British soldiers standing five or six deep gazing out into the channel.

"Can you see it? The cliffs! Straight ahead."

"I can't." A short private in the back jumped up and down to try and get a glimpse.

"Down in front," someone yelled. Others began looking out from the port and stern railings. Below decks, you could hear soldiers scrambling up the ship's ladders to get on deck.

Suddenly, Newkirk felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see his best mates from camp, LeBeau, Kinch, Baker, Carter and Olsen, standing in back of him.

"You're almost home, buddy," Carter said softly.

Newkirk, tears forming in his eyes, nodded. He turned his head and continued to gaze out into the channel. "I see them."

A whistle came over the loudspeaker, signaling an announcement. "This is Colonel Robert Hogan of the United States Air Force. As the highest ranking POW on this ship, I want to say to everyone…job well done…and to our British friends, welcome home."

"That's my C.O." Newkirk told his new acquaintance proudly.

Next, over the loudspeaker, the returning soldiers heard the familiar strains of a favorite song. Tears flowed freely now, and everyone, bit-by-bit, joined in.

_"There'll be bluebirds over  
The white cliffs of Dover  
Tomorrow  
Just you wait and see…."_

_This was one of the most popular songs of the era. One of the most famous recordings was made by Vera Lynn in 1942._

_From Wikipedia:_

_"It was written before America had joined, to lift the spirits of the Allies at a time when the Germans had conquered much of Europe and was bombing Britain. The song was written about a year after British and German aircraft had been fighting over the cliffs of Dover in the Battle of Britain: the song's lyrics looked towards a time when the war would be over and peace would rule over the iconic white cliffs of Dover, Britain's de facto border with the European mainland._

_"The White Cliffs of Dover" is one of many popular songs that use a "Bluebird of Happiness" as a symbol of cheer, although there are no bluebirds in Dover (the bluebird is not indigenous to Britain). Nat Burton, the lyricist of the song, was an American who had never been to the place. But, the song captured the feelings of the Allies about protecting Britain from the planned German invasion"_


	8. This is the Army

_ "This is the Army, Mr. Jones" _

_written by Irving Berlin in 1942 for the revue "This is the Army."_

_Irving Berlin, was born in Tyumen, Russia in 1888. His original name was Israel Isidore Baline. His family fled to the United States in the 1890's to escape persecution of the Jewish community. Berlin is one of the United States best known songwriters, penning such hits as Alexander's Ragtime Band, White Christmas, and God Bless America. He died in 1989._

A missing scene from "The Safecracker Suite."

* * *

The three prisoners stood ramrod straight in Klink's office as the Kommandant paced back and forth in front of them. Over on the side, their commanding officer watched and listened; a slight hint of bemusement in his eyes.

Klink talked for five minutes straight without getting to the point-three pairs of eyes following his every move. He thanked the three for serving at the party, and for participating in Hogan's successful scheme. He reminded them of his generous nature, and the extra privileges he granted the prisoners under his care as thanks to Colonel Hogan for coming up with the plan in the first place.

Finally, the Kommandant paused, turning his head to look at Carter, Newkirk and LeBeau. Fortunately, Newkirk quickly erased the funny look he had on his face in time to avoid a trip to the cooler. Meanwhile, Carter stepped forward. "Aw shucks, Kommandant. We were happy to help."

Hogan, wondering where this was going, decided to end the meeting and get out before Klink, now that he had time to think about the event, asked too many questions. Hogan cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. "If that's all, sir. I have some work I need to do."

Klink turned around. "No. No, Hogan I'm not finished." Looking over at the other prisoners, Klink asked angrily. "Do you three know what you've done, and the trouble I'm in? How could you?"

"Sorry, sir? I thought we nipped your trouble in the bud." Newkirk turned to Hogan and mouthed the word _what_. Hogan shrugged in response.

"You don't know?" Klink walked over to his desk, and sat down on the front, in between his humidor and pickelhaube. He picked up his riding crop, and stared at it for a moment; sadness in his eyes. "The song."

"The song?" Although he knew the men had come up with a quick diversion, Hogan had been too concerned with both the Gestapo agent and keeping Klink sober to recall the actual performance.

"The song," Klink stated. "Why couldn't you just sing _Lili Marlene_? Instead, you had to go with…I'm a musical man myself, you know. Well of course, you do. You've heard my violin playing. I appreciate music. But you went too far. I had to intercede with many of the attendees. Some proposed serious consequences." Klink shuddered. "Transfers, or worse. Fortunately, the Luftwaffe is merciful. That music and that composer is verboten! It's one thing to sing it in your barracks, but you sang it in public, where you were working. And I had to lie about why you were there, Hogan!"

"Music?" Hogan wracked his brain. Finally, it was LeBeau who understood Klink's discomfort and the unenviable position they had foisted on the Kommandant. He whispered something in Hogan's ear, and the colonel turned a slight shade of pale. He pulled himself together. "It won't happen again, Kommandant. My men are sorry they put you in that position, but they had to pull something together rather quickly. Didn't you?"

Both Carter and Newkirk, by now, realized what had happened, and how close they might have come to disaster-for everyone.

Carter, looking down on the floor, apologized. "Sorry, sir. It was my fault. I came up with the title. We all knew it. I didn't mean any harm. And I did compliment your country." He shut up as Newkirk elbowed him.

Newkirk was clearly furious. "Kommandant, I really think that it's bloody awful that..."

"Newkirk!" Hogan interrupted the corporal before further harm was done. "That's enough."

"Sorry, sir."

"Oh, just go." Klink pointed towards the door. Once the four left, he sat in his desk chair and placed his head in his hands. "My country," he repeated, sadly shaking his head.

* * *

Out in the compound, Hogan was quickly surrounded by Carter, Newkirk and LeBeau. All three were talking at once, trying to apologize for their lapse in judgment. Hogan waved them off. "You had to think on the fly, and it worked. No harm done," he told them. "But next time, come prepared with a better song choice. You know, I feel bad for Klink."

"Really?" Carter asked. "Why?"

"He thought he was off the hook, and then he had to bail us out." Hogan grinned.

"Pardon me, Colonel. But it's about time," Newkirk said. "Turnabout is fair play. Every so often I need to be reminded what we are fighting for," he added. Newkirk's fists clenched in anger.

The rest of the group nodded in agreement.

"Say fellows. You know, I thought we sounded pretty good. Maybe we should actually start that glee club…Roll out the barrel," Carter sang, while Newkirk and LeBeau tried to crawl into a hole that wasn't there.

Hogan gave the sergeant a friendly pat on the back. "Next war, Carter. Next…" A thoughtful look passed over the colonel's face. He snapped his fingers."Hold on.. Gentlemen, the Stalag 13 theater of the air is back in business. Except this time it will be on stage."

"Aw, but colonel. You said our acting was horrifying. Even my mother would have walked out," Carter said.

"Yes, Carter. You were right. But your singing was pretty good. Newkirk, tell Kinch to notify the entire camp that we are starting rehearsals for a variety show. Anyone with an act should sign up."

"And when are we having this show, sir?" Newkirk asked. "I performed at the Palladium, you know. Perhaps I can direct?"

"Hold your horses, Newkirk. The date is open. When we need the show, we'll be ready. You never know when we'll need another diversion. Now I have to see Klink about opening up more time in the rec hall. We need rehearsal space."

"You are truly devious, colonel," LeBeau said in admiration. "But in a good way," he added hastily.

"Thanks, LeBeau. I try." Hogan watched as his three men enthusiastically headed back towards the barracks. "God knows, I try." The wheels already turning in his head, Hogan headed back towards the Kommandanteur. His first mission: convince Klink to somehow acquire a full set of drums.

* * *

_Author's note added August 13th. Several reviewers have expressed a bit of confusion as to why the song choice would have been so controversial; why Hogan turned a bit pale, and why Klink was so upset. I apologize for the confusion. I mistakenly assumed all readers would know Berlin's history and that he was Jewish. As to the song choice, etc. I don't think it was the song choice per se that was the main problem. I believe it was Carter's lines; naming Berlin (America's most famous Jewish-American songwriter) as the composer and to make matters worse, mentioning that it was the name of the capital city. I think Carter (ie: the writers) were making a point. (see Mel Brooks) In my opinion it would only take just one of the attendees at the party to cause trouble. This is just my opinion, of course..._

_As to what LeBeau whispered to Hogan. I left that to the imagination as it wasn't necessary for the story. I assume LeBeau just informed Hogan that they sang that song, and that Carter unintentionally stepped in it by mentioning Berlin, etc._

_Thank you Book 'em Again for your input._

_The Stalag 13 Theater of the Air was performed in the episode "Top Hat, White Tie and Bomb Sight." That's when we were treated to a fantastic rendition of "Roll Out the Barrel." The phrase "the Stalag 13 Theater of the Air" was coined by Hogan._

_And now we have an explanation as to how the prisoners managed to come up with a variety show so quickly! The show was performed in the episode "Praise the Führer and Pass the Ammunition." Larry Hovis did not appear in that episode._


	9. Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree

_And now a chapter featuring my favorite canon extra!_

_"Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree"_

_Words and music by Sam Stept, Lew Brown, and Charles Tobias - 1942_

"_Originally titled "Anywhere the Bluebird Goes,"__the melody was written by __Sam H. Stept__ as an updated version of the nineteenth-century English folk song "__Long, Long Ago.__" __Lew Brown__ and __Charles Tobias__ wrote the lyrics and the song debuted in the 1939 Broadway musical __Yokel Boy__. After the United States entered the war in December 1941, Brown and Tobias modified the lyrics to their current form." Wikipedia_

_The song has been recorded multiple times by many different artists._

_Olsen's background is from my story, "The Outside Man."_

Something was bothering Brian Olsen. The usually ebullient sergeant was quiet, and surprisingly, a bit short-tempered. At first, his friends wisely decided to give him a wide berth. After all, the stress and tension of being a crucial part of Colonel Hogan's operation would get the best of anyone, even the one man who had the luxury of spending a good deal of his time outside the wire, sleeping in a real bed, eating real food, and being considered part of the Schnitzers' family.

But as Olsen's behavior worsened, the men became concerned. No one dared ask him flat-out what was wrong. First, most of the men tended to mind their own business, figuring that a guy would talk when he was ready to talk. Olsen's closest friends in camp attempted to engage him in conversation, but to no avail. Even LeBeau, to whom he was very close, reported that the American sergeant had almost bit his head off.

Colonel Hogan noticed the change, but decided not to press his outside man; figuring that eventually Olsen would either divulge the problem and ask for help, or work it out himself. There was no indication that Olsen couldn't be trusted, or that he was a danger to himself and others, so the officer, after being rebuffed once, dropped the subject.

Two obvious things that may have caused Olsen's sullenness was something that struck fear into the heart of many a soldier…bad news from home, or a Dear John letter. But this had been discussed amongst Olsen's friends and readily dismissed. The camp had not had a mail delivery in several months, and Olsen had been perfectly fine at that point. He had received several letters and they went into his footlocker, but not after sharing the letters with the rest of the hut. His family had sent him some new photos and a drawing from a young neighbor. No one would even entertain the notion of sneaking into Olsen's footlocker to see if he was holding something back. Footlockers and mail were off-limits, and anyone caught invading a fellow prisoner's privacy would be severely punished.

So, everyone agreed that Olsen's change in demeanor was a mystery. But after a few weeks, in which the sergeant seemed to become more depressed, Hogan decided to take matters into his own hands, and snuck out of camp to pay a visit to Oscar Schnitzer.

Oscar and Hogan sat in the veterinarian's kitchen, while Oscar's wife Greta fussed over the colonel.

"You look like you've lost some weight, Robert." Greta's voice displayed her concern as she place a cup of tea in front of the colonel.

He smiled. "I'm fine. Just exercising more, that's all."

Greta, not believing a word, muttered to herself as she sliced some bread. "You'll eat. Here."

Hogan knew better than to argue. Instead, he came right to the point. "Anything odd happen with Olsen recently? He hasn't been himself lately."

The Schnitzer's glanced at each other; then shook their heads.

"He's been fine. And nothing odd has happened around here, not that I know of, Robert. How has he been acting?" Oscar asked.

"I'd say he has been down in the dumps." Seeing the German couple's quizzical look, Hogan explained. "Hasn't been his usual self. A bit depressed. Not talking. Seems stressed."

"That doesn't sound like our Brian." Greta's concern about Hogan's weight was now forgotten. She was extremely protective of the young American sergeant she considered a son.

"No, it isn't like him. He's usually one of our more talkative prisoners. I can't take the chance of a severe issue with one of my top operatives."

Oscar was rubbing his chin, trying to think of an answer. "He was with Heidi last week; before she went to Heidelberg. Everything seemed perfectly fine. But if you wish, I can try speaking with him."

"Maybe he'll confide in you," Hogan agreed. "Thanks."

"I'll come by tomorrow to switch one of the dogs,"

"We'll see you tomorrow, then." Hogan replied. "Oh, and one more thing. This is just between us three. I was never here."

"I think that's wise, Robert." Greta refilled Hogan's cup. "And thank you for looking out for Brian."

Hogan smiled. He knew how much the Schnitzer's cared for the sergeant. "Thank you. And I'd do the same for anyone of the men in the camp."

"Of course you would," Oscar said. "And so would we."

Oscar's truck unexpectedly pulled up in front of the dog pen the next morning. As expected, a nosy Schultz warily walked over to the truck and nervously struck up a conversation with the veterinarian; a normally grumpy man of few words.

"You weren't expected until next week," Schultz commented as Oscar exited the driver's seat and walked around to the back. All Schultz got was a grunt in return, but he was sure this was a surprise visit. The veterinarian stared back at the sergeant and prepared to open the door to where the dogs were kept. Seeing this, Schultz stepped off to the side.

"Wolfgang was getting rambunctious. He needs a change of scenery." Oscar opened up the back and gently coached Wolfgang down. He then took her over to the gate of the pen, now full of wagging tails and wet noses. On cue, the dog turned in Schultz's direction and growled. Schultz moved further away. Once Oscar had retrieved another shepherd and put it in the truck, he closed the door and walked over to a shaken Schultz. "Sign here."

Schultz signed, and without even a thank you, a grumbling Oscar walked away. He entered the truck, turned on the engine, and then quickly turned it off. Exiting, he popped the hood and stared.

This was a cue that he wanted to speak with one of the prisoners; Olsen to be exact.

"Hey, Olsen!" Garth poked his head through the door of the hut. Oscar's popped the hood."

"Thanks." Olsen jumped off his bunk and walked out of the hut. Seeing the coast was clear, he stealthily made his way over to the dog pen.

Newkirk poked Garth. "That's bonnet. Not hood."

"It's chips, not crisps," Garth replied good-naturedly.

Newkirk shook his head in mock impatience. "How am I ever going to teach you the King's English, if you always have a comeback?"

"Give up, Newkirk." Hogan, who had come out of his office, chuckled. "What's Oscar doing here?"

"He switched one of the dogs," Garth replied. "And then he called for Olsen."

"Must have a good reason. Newkirk, check it out."

"Expecting a problem, sir?"

"No. But let me know if Olsen disappears."

Olsen stayed in between the truck and the fence of the dog pen, confident that he wouldn't be seen. A group of prisoners, out tossing around a football, moved closer to the pen, ready to divert the attention of any guards if necessary."Problem with the engine, doctor?" Olsen asked politely.

"No. But I could use your help at the house. Do you think you can get away for a bit?"

This was not an unusual request, and Olsen was not worried, especially since Oscar seemed calm. "I'll have to check with Colonel Hogan. If it's okay, I'll head out the tunnel and meet you at the usual spot. Check the window of our hut. I'll have someone dump some water for a signal."

"Good."

Olsen disappeared into the dog pen and used the doghouse to get into the tunnel system and back up into the hut.

Oscar patiently waited, sure that he would receive the signal.

Several minutes later, Olsen knocked on Hogan's door.

"Come in. Ah, Olsen. What's going on? Oscar was early. What's all over your face and shirt?"

"Dog slobber, sir." Olsen took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "Oscar needs me at the house. I came in to check if I can go."

Hogan made a motion of thinking over the prospect, scratching his chin and pacing for a moment. "It must be important. Yeah, we'll cover for you. Just let us know how long you'll be gone. I'll send you a shopping list over the radio."

"Thank you, sir."

Oscar and Olsen had a quiet ride back to town. This also was not unusual. If there was a mission or underground work that needed Olsen's language skills, or his alternate identity, it was often not discussed until they were safely off the road and inside Oscar's home. Olsen knew that his mission wouldn't be revealed until he was fussed over by Oscar's wife and fed. He didn't mind. He would give his life for the couple he considered his surrogate parents. They were warm and understanding. And it was through them that he met the woman he fell in love with; the woman he planned on marrying; Oscar's niece, Heidi. As he thought about her, he slumped down in the seat. This did not go unnoticed by Oscar.

"Something wrong, son?"

"No. I just miss Heidi, that's all."

"I see." There was definitely something else, Oscar realized. Heidi had been away before. He decided not to press the young man until they were settled inside.

Sure enough, Greta was ready with a meal. There was to be no talk of dangerous missions, guns, or Nazis until Brian was fed. As usual, he cleared the table and began washing the dishes, a chore he didn't mind, as he found it relaxing. Once the kitchen was clean, the three went into the living room and sat down.

"So, what's the mission? I need to let Colonel Hogan know how long I'll be gone. And he has a shopping list."

"He always does, doesn't he, Oscar?"

"Yes, dear. A shopping list."

Brian waited for more of a response. _What the hell is going on here? _He thought. "You need help with your practice?" He asked hopefully. He wasn't in the mood for something more dangerous, although he would do what was necessary.

Oscar sighed. "The mission is you."

Brian raised his eyebrows, and he sat up straight. "Pardon?"

"You haven't been yourself, lately. We've been very worried." Greta said, hoping that the sergeant wouldn't lose his temper.

Sure enough, Brian put up his defenses. "I haven't been here since Heidi left. I'm fine and…Wait a minute. Colonel Hogan went out yesterday. He was here, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was." Oscar admitted.

"He had no right." Brian's voice rose. "People should just mind their own business." He got up from the couch. "You don't need me for anything. You took me out of camp for this? What if they realize I'm missing and they can't cover for me? What about that?" He walked over to the fireplace, turned to face it and put his hand on the mantle.

Oscar walked over to the fireplace but kept his distance. "Colonel Hogan agreed to let you out of camp. Remember? And it is his business. He felt your behavior and demeanor could be an issue. You're one of his top operatives."

"And I've already had a nervous breakdown, right?(1) So I can't be trusted anymore?"

"No, of course not," Greta replied quietly. "You're hurting, and everyone can see it."

"If you don't wish to talk, or if you want to wait until Heidi comes back…well, it's your prerogative. We'll abide by your wishes. I'll take you right back to camp if you want."

"No, Oscar. I need to call in and write down what Colonel Hogan wants. I'll be back." Brian headed for the basement, where the radio was hidden.

"That didn't go too well." Oscar told his wife.

"Give him some time," she replied. "He may come around."

Brian was still steaming when he reached Kinch on the radio. "I'll be back tomorrow," he told the radioman. "I've got a pencil. What do you need?"

The list was short. Kinch and Carter needed some minor parts for their equipment and LeBeau asked for one herb he used to make special tea for those who were sick. Olsen realized that nothing was urgent, and that he wouldn't have been sent out for the items unless he was switching with a downed flier, or if there was actually an important job he had to do for Oscar or another member of the Underground. He curtly cut off the transmission and sat back in the chair, feeling that his relationship with everyone was on thin ice. Not wanting to go back upstairs yet, he decided to listen to the radio, fiddling with the tuner until he could reach the banned BBC.

He enjoyed music, and listening to a few popular tunes relaxed him a bit.

"_Our next tune is Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree. We usually play the version by the Andrews Sisters, but tonight we're featuring __Marion Hutton, Tex Beneke, Ray Eberle, The Modernaires__ and the Glenn Miller orchestra." _

At first he didn't pay attention to the words. The lyrics to a lot of these hits were so familiar, that members of his generation could actually sing them by heart without realizing what they were saying. But the end of the song, the girl's response sung by Marion Hutton, got his attention.

_"Don't give out with those lips of yours  
To anyone else but me,  
Anyone else but me, anyone else but me, No No NO!  
Lots of girls on the foreign shores,"_

Brian sat up straight and turned off the radio. He knew something was wrong, but he hadn't been able to pinpoint his depression until now. He took a deep breath and headed upstairs.

Greta and Oscar were seated on the sofa, reading. Hearing the squeak on the basement stairs, they looked at each and placed the books on the coffee table. Would Brian talk, or would he head right up to the second floor without saying another word?

Brian paused at the top of the stairs. He shut the door, and walked into the living room and sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa.

"They're right. I haven't been myself. I'm sorry I lashed out like that."

"Are you ready to talk about it?" Greta asked.

Brian nodded. "I was listening to a song downstairs. You probably know it. "_Don't sit under the Apple Tree_?"

"Yes. By the Andrew Sisters," Greta said.

"Right. But there's another version. The ending has the girl answering the guy." Brian sang the lyrics.

"So, obviously that means something to you." Oscar stated.

"Yes. A few months ago, I got a letter from an old girlfriend. Louise. Did I ever mention her?"

"I don't think so," was Greta's reply. Oscar concurred.

"Okay. I knew her from college. We were never serious or anything, and when I signed up, we decided to just be friends. But she's always been good about sending letters and packages. Especially after I got captured."

"I'm sure you appreciate that, Brian," Greta said.

"Absolutely. We can never get enough mail. And I keep everything. I was putting away some things in my footlocker…"

"This wasn't one of those Dear Jean letters was it?"

Brian smiled at Oscar's mispronunciation. "Dear John, and no. Like I said, we weren't serious. And she never said she was seeing anyone else. Honestly, I'd be thrilled. Anyway, I was straightening out my footlocker, and I saw the pile of letters from Louise."

"And you can't keep photos and letters from Heidi in camp. Is that what the problem is?"

Brian sighed. He could almost see his mother saying the same thing as Greta. Women were so intuitive sometimes. "I know I can't," he answered. "It's too dangerous. That's part of it; but I think everything just got to me. I've fallen in love with one of those girls on those foreign shores. And no one can know. I don't even know how I can explain it to people back home. I don't even know if I can tell my family what we've been doing in camp. What if Louise is waiting for me? She hasn't said anything, but I don't know…And it's been two months since we got any mail."

"Ah, I understand now. There will be questions you cannot answer. How could you meet if you were a prisoner? And are you wondering if you still have feelings for this other girl?" Oscar asked.

Brian shrugged. He didn't know what to think at the moment. All he knew is that he was feeling conflicted and worried.

Greta smiled and patted her husband's hand. "I think if he had feelings for this other girl, he would know. And he wouldn't have plans to ask Heidi to marry him perhaps?"

Oscar's mouth hung open, while Brian, who thought of denying this, held back a reply.

"See Oscar. Silence. So Brian, it is true?"

"Yes, Greta. It's true."

"Marvelous." Oscar stood up. "Let's have a drink!"

"But what about the song? Louise? Everything?" Olsen still did not feel up to par, although it felt good to get certain things off his chest.

"Brian. Believe me. A lot of your compatriots will be bringing home girls from foreign shores. Didn't you tell us once you had a close friend at the base that married an English girl?"

"Yeah, but that's easier to explain."

"Look. There are a lot of things out of our control. And this is one of them. You have no way of knowing what will happen tomorrow, much less how much longer this war will last. And who knows what will happen with Stalag 13 and the operation. I have faith that eventually, things will turn out for the best, and you will do what's right and what's necessary. And if you get stuck on what to say…ask your colonel for help when the time comes. He could convince the English to switch over to coffee if he had a mind to."

Brian laughed. "You've got him pegged. And no one else knows. I haven't even talked to any of the guys about it."

"Your secrets are safe with us," Greta assured him. "You know that. Now. Do you think you feel better?"

"Yes. But I could use that drink!"

Olsen returned to camp the next day with the goods that were requested. Hogan immediately noticed the change in Olsen's demeanor. He didn't press the sergeant for information, nor did he have plans to check with Oscar. He was just pleased to have his outside man back to normal.

That night, Olsen did some soul-searching and came to a decision. The next morning, after making sure the common room was empty, he knocked on Hogan's open door.

"Something on your mind, Olsen?"

"Yes, sir. There is something on my mind."

Hogan smiled. "Sit down. You know my door's always open."

* * *

In "The Outside Man," Olsen (who had lived in Germany as a child…his mother was German) went through a very difficult time after being captured, and was in quite a state when he arrived at camp. With the help of the other prisoners, and especially Colonel Hogan, Olsen recovered.

Oscar's niece, Heidi, appeared in one episode.

**War Brides**:

"Precise totals are hard to determine, but between the years 1942 and 1952, about one million American soldiers married foreign women from 50 different countries. As many as 100,000 war brides were British, 150,000 to 200,000 hailed from continental Europe, and another 16,000 came from Australia and New Zealand. There were brides from non-Allied countries, too. Military estimates indicate that 50,000 to 100,000 servicemen wed women from countries of the Far East, including Japan, and immigration records show that by 1950, 14,175 German brides of American servicemen had entered the United States."

from wwwdotamericainwwiidotcom/articles/war-brides/

personal note: I would not be here if it were not for the war. But my history is the opposite. My father left England after the war due to poor economic conditions (he served in the Royal Navy). In 1949, he emigrated to the states, where he met my mother.


	10. Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy

_Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy_

_A major hit for the Andrews Sisters, "the song was written by Don Raye and Hughie Prince, and was recorded at Decca's Hollywood studios on January 2, 1941, nearly a year before the United States entered World War II but after the start of a peacetime draft to expand the armed forces in anticipation of American involvement." Courtesy…Wikipedia Bette Midler also recorded a faster version of the song in 1973.  
_

"Okay, let me get this straight. You're a gourmet cook, but for some reason no one can fathom, when you volunteered for the air corps, they made you a mechanic?"

"Yes, sir. That's right, sir."

The colonel then looked at the frightened private standing next to the nervous mechanic.

"And you worked in your father's garage, but for some reason that no one can explain, the air corps sat you down and taught you how to peel potatoes?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean, I do more than just peeling potatoes, sir." The private was clearly perturbed at being called into the base commander's office.

"At ease. I'm not going to bite your head off."

The two men relaxed.

"So, according to the reports,_ you_ can't even change a flat tire without hurting yourself, and _you_…you're spending more time in the hospital getting stitched up, then actually cooking. That right?"

The two privates confirmed the reports.

"Okay. As of today, you two are switching jobs."

"Um, sir. Doesn't that need authorization from?" Seeing Hogan's face, the new cook shut up. "Thank you, sir?"

"Don't thank me. Just do your jobs. Dismissed. See the clerk on the way out."

The two privates scurried out before something happened to their transfers.

As they left, Hogan's adjutant, Major John Hartley, waltzed in, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He and Hogan had known one another for quite some time, and Hartley could be frank with the colonel, and the colonel, in turn, listened to the major's advice and opinions. Whether or not he had any intention of following the advice was another story all together.

"So Rob. Handling departmental transfers for privates is now in your job description?"

"Just wanted to see what kind of lower-level rear echelon troops they're sending up. Besides, everyone here is part of the 504th. Not just the air crews. From now on, I want to personally meet all new support personnel."

"All right."

"Scared the dickens out of those two." Hogan began to laugh and Hartley joined in. "Find out if there are any men out there doing the wrong jobs. I don't need any more dejected or depressed troops working on equipment or manning anti-aircraft guns. It's dangerous and bad for morale."

"Will do. And what happens when HQ starts getting wind of all these reassignments? They don't take too kindly to high mucky-mucks like yourself playing God with the careers of 20 year-old privates. That's their job." Hartley sat back and waited for the answer he knew was coming.

"When it comes up, I'll think of something."

Hogan's attempt at matching assignments with talents, even if it meant going against original orders, was well-intentioned. But, unfortunately it backfired. Word had spread that those unhappy with their orders could only find a buddy from another department similarly unhappy, and their assignments would be switched. The support staff became spoiled, and the department heads bore the brunt of the chaos that ensued. Eventually, Hogan met with Hartley to discuss the situation.

The major handed the colonel a record.

"What's this about?" Hogan asked as he turned the 78 over in his hands. "_Bounce Me Brother With a Solid Four_ and _Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy_?"

"Listen to the _Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy_."

Hogan walked over to the small phonograph player that sat on top of the credenza, and after placing the adapter on the spindle, he set down the 45, and started the record. "Love the Andrew Sisters," he commented. "You remind me of one of my high school English teachers," he told Hartley after the song ended. "So do I need to write a book report, or can I just tell you I got the point?"

Hartley laughed. "So, what's the point?"

"The army makes mistakes, and sometimes there's a solution, but I can't fix everything. You were right. I didn't delegate. I should have stuck with my job...planning and leading missions, dealing with the flight crews." Hogan really did enjoy interacting with all the men (not just the flight crews) and micromanaging. He knew he had a knack for planning, plotting, personnel management, and winging-it. More than one teacher, superior or older relative had informed him of that fact; usually after he had caused some trouble and charmed his way out of it. Hogan could not help but look and sound dejected, although he hoped Hartley didn't pick up on it.

Hartley did. He had the knack for reading his superiors like a book, which made him the perfect adjutant. He'd rather be flying, but his age and eyesight made that impossible, so keeping an eye on the colonel and the flight crews was the next best thing. He was sure that Hogan would find his way and become a top-notch base commander. After all, the war department had enough faith in the young officer to promote him to full colonel and give him a bomber group, and Hartley agreed with their decision. But there was the small matter of trying to be all things to all people, and Hogan had to learn from his mistakes.

"And what else?" Hartley reached over and offered the colonel a cigarette, which Hogan declined.

"Sometimes stirring the pot can make things boil over." Hogan smiled at his own creative way with words.

Hartley laughed. "I always envied your gift of gab."

"Took years of practice; but it comes in handy." Hogan leaned back in his chair and relaxed, placing his hands behind his head.

"I have a feeling that your job is going to get a lot more stressful. You know you're going to have to put time aside for handling some things that no one should have to handle," Hartley said.

Hartley did not have to spell it out. Hogan knew exactly what those tasks were, and although he always dreaded the duty, some things could not be delegated. "Notifying next of kin is my job," he answered firmly. "It's not like I haven't done it before."

"I think it's going to get worse, you know. I've heard rumors that we're going to start daylight bombing."

Hogan didn't ask where Hartley had heard those rumors. He had heard them as well, and from reliable sources. He hoped they were wrong; as far as he was concerned, without fighter support, daylight bombing was suicidal. "We'll deal with it." Hogan picked up a pencil and began drumming it on the desk. Some part of the colonel was constantly in motion. He was fidgeting or drumming his fingers on the desk, using a pencil as a drumstick, as he was now, pacing, running his fingers through his hair, or wrapping his arms around his torso, probably in an attempt to stop his body from moving. Hartley couldn't imagine how Hogan passed basic. Standing at attention for longer than a few seconds must have been torture for the man.

"So, I don't mean to change the subject," Hogan said, although that was exactly what he was trying to do. "But what do we do about the personnel problems that I guess I caused?" The drumming continued; it was not an unpleasant sound. Actually, Hartley found it relaxing, and he couldn't help but tap his toe in beat to the "music."

"Ever think of forming a base band from the support staff?"

"No. We've got enough going on. Besides…" Hogan snapped his fingers. "That's it!"

"That's it?" Hartley repeated. "You do realize I was joking?"

"Yeah, but we need a diversion. Give the support staff something to do, and they'll be too busy to gripe about their jobs. It's easier to catch flies with honey. When you've got a lemon, make lemonade. The glass is half-full. You know-all that crap."

Hartley stared blankly at the colonel.

"Or," Hogan continued. "I can just meet with the department heads, have a little talk, and let them deal with it."

Startled out of his stupor, Hartley agreed. "I think that's a good idea. Not that it matters what I think."

"Actually, John. It does. I may not always take your advice, but I'll always listen." Hogan stood up, his sign that the meeting was over.

Hartley rose from his chair and headed for the door. "Anything else, Colonel?"

"No. And thanks."

Hartley watched as Hogan walked over to the window and gazed out at his base, his command, and his men. Satisfied, the major left the colonel to his thoughts. He exited the office and began making preparations for the department head meetings that Hogan wanted. Shaking his head, he chuckled, eliciting strange looks from the clerks in the outer room of the administrative office building. "What do you all think of forming a base band?" he asked in all seriousness as he wondered if the colonel's diversionary scheme might indeed have some merit.

_HhHhHh_

_The song "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" tells the story about a draftee who was a famous, top-notch musician; but whose talents were not recognized. He was assigned to blow wake-up calls, which caused him to become dejected. However, the commander eventually conscripted more musicians and formed a band, which really revved up the reveille! However, the bugler became spoiled as he could no longer blow reveille without the bass and guitar being with him._

_I modeled Hogan's adjutant, John Hartley, after the character Major Harvey Stovall from the movie and TV series, Twelve O'Clock High. In the TV series, Stovall and the two base commanders, General Frank Savage, and then Colonel Joe Gallagher, seem to have a relaxed and familiar relationship. Stovall's eyesight and age prevented him from flying. The name Hartley comes from the always wonderful Bob Newhart Show, in which Newhart plays a psychologist._


	11. On a Wing and a Prayer

Thanks to an alert reader/reviewer for pointing out a mistake in the previous chapter. 45 records weren't in use yet. I've fixed the error, but I can't thank the person as they didn't sign in.

I'd like to thank my two beta's, who helped tremendously with this chapter. Book 'em Again, and Missy the Least.

_Comin' In On a Wing and a Prayer_

_words and music by Harold Adamson and Jimmie McHugh 194__3_

Five Allied prisoners and one overweight German sergeant of the guard trudged back to the prisoner of war camp they called home. The prisoners were pleased that the mission was successful and a German general was now on his way to England in his own plane. Ironically, that plane was being piloted by a rescued Allied airman. This same general was now considered a traitor to the Third Reich, having been blamed for the bombing of a refinery.

However, the German guard was not pleased. He had been literally kidnapped and forced into that plane. The bombing run was bad enough, but the icing on the cake was being kicked out of the aircraft into the wild blue yonder. Fortunately, he had a parachute, but that did not make the experience any more palatable. He was so traumatized that he was sure he would never recover.

"Colonel Hogan, we can't go in through the gates carrying parachutes," Schultz moaned.

"Don't worry, Schultz, no one will see us." Like the rest of his crew, Hogan was quiet. Initially elated after seeing the refinery go up in flames, the men were caught up in their own thoughts. Knowing he was again responsible for deaths on the ground was never a good feeling, although he realized that they all understood the carnage was necessary. Hogan was also feeling down after his experiences with Biedenbender. The day reminded him of his lost plane and his lost crew. Five had not survived the destruction of his B-17.

Schultz again broke through the uncomfortable silence.

"Colonel Hogan, when I look at you at camp, and we talk, I see you as a prisoner and an officer, as someone who controls the monkey business around camp, but never a pilot."

"Well, that's why I have the wings on the jacket." Hogan quipped. He then walked a bit faster, getting ahead of the group, leading the four prisoners and their guard back to camp.

Newkirk heard the sergeant and stopped, forcing the rest of the men to pause before they ran into him. "That's because we're all out of our element, Schultz. I only see you as a guard, and someone who barges in to our hut at inopportune times. Not as a toy maker."

"He isn't a toy maker, Newkirk. He owns the factory. And I see him as a human vacuum cleaner. Sucking up every crumb," LeBeau added.

Carter, catching up to the rest of the crew, sidled up to Schultz."You make a good point, Schultz. We're all different from what we were. You see, I was a…

"Colonel Hogan is a top-notch pilot," Kinch interrupted before Schultz recalled that Carter had been an officer before he was a sergeant. "He could fly anything and everything with wings. Even if part of the plane was missing."

That comment silenced the group that lagged behind Hogan. They all stopped dead in their tracks and looked at the radioman. "Come again, Kinch?"

"He landed a plane on one wing, Carter. Thought you all knew."

Hogan turned around and walked towards the group, hurrying them along. "Stop talking and get a move on."

"Colonel Hogan, is it true you landed a plane without a wing?"

Hogan stopped, his face solemn in the moonlight. "Who told you that, Schultz?"

Kinch stepped forward. "Sorry, sir. I did. We were all talking about what we did before ending up in the toughest prison camp in Germany."

"Okay, Schultz. There's the camp up ahead. Be a good guard and run on ahead and tell them to open up the gates. You've brought back five escaped prisoners. Could be a medal waiting for you. In fact, I'll hold your parachute." Hogan quickly moved into action before the guard could respond, grabbing Schultz's parachute and pushing the portly guard forward. Meanwhile, Hogan's men scattered, heading for the tree trunk entrance to the emergency tunnel.

"But Colonel Hogan, I can't run, and…" Schultz, seeing that four men had disappeared from view, looked quizzically at the American officer. "Where did they go?"

"Where did who go?"

"Newkirk, Carter, LeBeau and Kinchloe," Schultz answered as he counted off on his hand.

"That's odd." Hogan scratched his forehead. "They were just here. I'll find them." Without waiting for Schultz's answer, Hogan took off running, disappearing into the woods.

Schultz stood still for several moments, thinking about the events of the evening and his predicament. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that mentioning escaped prisoners meant trouble for himself and for the men under his charge. He also instinctively knew that when he returned to camp, he would find Hogan and his men lounging around the barracks as if nothing had happened. Letting out a deep sigh, the sergeant headed for the Stalag – alone. Thanks to the confusion caused by the traitorous actions of Biedenbender and the bombing of the refinery (although he knew otherwise) no one paid Schultz any mind when he arrived at the entrance and was let in. For a brief moment, Schultz considered checking to see if Hogan and the men were in the barracks, but thought better of the idea. Instead, he headed for his quarters, got undressed and tried to go to sleep as he wondered if he would ever find out how the colonel landed a plane on one wing.

Hogan arrived at the tree trunk shortly after Schultz arrived at the gates. The colonel climbed in, paused at the bottom of the ladder and looked to make sure all of his men had arrived safely in the tunnels. "It's been a long night. Let's get some sleep." He clambered up to the barracks ahead of the pack, and as usual, let the man on watch know they were all back, before heading to his own bunk.

"Guess he doesn't want to talk about it," Newkirk said quietly a few minutes later as he tried not to wake the other men sleeping in the hut.

"Kinch, what happened?" LeBeau whispered.

The radioman shook his head. "Ask the colonel," he advised. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Hogan undressed slowly. Although several years had passed, the day was still fresh in his mind. It was before he took command of the 504th. He was in command of the lead plane in a squadron, watching helplessly as the others got torn up, first by flak and then fighters. His load was dropped, but the fighters kept coming.

_Captain Carl Fletcher, Hogan's co-pilot, was looking out the window. "Brice's plane just got hit," he said._

"_Chutes?" Hogan, his jaw set, concentrated on keeping the plane level, and avoiding the guns of the Germans fighters._

"_Five chutes. No. six. I see six." At that moment, the damaged plane exploded, the aftereffects buffeting Hogan's plane. As he struggled to maintain control, the gunners in the back and the men in the turrets shouted out the locations of the enemy planes determined to destroy as many Allied planes and men as possible._

_Hogan turned on his radio and spoke to the squad. "Keep formation. Tighten up." The other crews obeyed, knowing that staying in formation was one of the keys to survival._

_A German fighter got through, spraying the back of the plane and cockpit with deadly accuracy. The shrapnel hit Fletcher in the side, and he slumped over in the chair. Hogan called to his crew, hoping he would be heard. "I need someone up here." _

_The radioman, Lieutenant Craig Williamson, climbed up and assessed Fletcher's injuries. "I think he'll be okay, sir. But we've got to get him home." The lieutenant glanced at Hogan, and slightly shook his head indicating that the copilot's injuries were more serious. As he provided what help he could, Williamson reported to Hogan. "Levine's hurt bad and Grey took shrapnel in the leg." Hogan knew that the navigator and bombardier would take the place of the two injured gunners._

_Fletcher waved off Williamson. "No morphine. Need to be able to bail out."_

"_No one's bailing out." Hogan replied. "Turrets?" he asked._

"_Still okay," Williamson replied before he headed back. _

"_How you doing?" Hogan asked Fletcher._

"_I'll survive," he answered, the pain obvious in his voice. "I don't think I can work the controls," Fletcher admitted, his breathing getting faster._

"_I'll get us home." Hogan said quietly through his mask, as he dived to avoid another round of firing from a German fighter. Suddenly, one of the engines was hit. The Germans, sensing another kill, swarmed towards the lead plane. _

"_We've got four heading right for us!" a gunner screamed. Hogan's world compressed. It was his plane, his men, his squadron and the Germans determined to destroy them all. He noticed other planes in the group breaking off in an attempt to lure the fighters away from their leader's plane. He turned on the radio, hoping that all the pilots would be able to hear. "Blue leader to squad. Maintain formation! Maintain formation! That's an order! Almost there! The Krauts will have to break off! Watch for flak. Maintain formation!" Another round of deadly missiles hit the plane. Hogan could hear screams coming from the rear of the aircraft. The right engine stopped. He tried to feather it, but it was dead. His airspeed was decreasing, he was losing altitude, and Hogan felt he could no longer keep up with the rest of the squad. "Blue leader to squad. I'm leaving formation." Reluctantly, he circled. Fortunately, by some miracle, the German fighters reached their limit and turned around to avoid their own flak. Hogan knew he had a rough flight ahead of him. He wondered if he would be able to avoid the flak at his slower speed and lack of control. He hoped he would make the channel, where he could either ditch the plane, or bail out. _

"_Anyone back there?" He asked. "I need a damage report." Glancing over at Fletcher, he noticed the co-pilot had passed out, probably from blood loss._

_Williamson answered. "Four hurt. Some of the cables have been cut. Number two engine is out. Looks like the right wing has been hit pretty badly."_

"_Hang on tight. Flak ahead in…30 seconds." Hogan's squadron was no longer in sight. As he checked all the controls, he could instinctively feel what was damaged. He had that connection with the aircraft. As he carefully and precisely maneuvered through the flak, the plane took a few more hits. "We're clear. Keep an eye on the wing, and the engines. Everyone still okay?"_

"_Roger, sir. We're still here."_

_Hogan's B-17 limped back towards the British coastline, hanging on to the slowest speed possible without stalling. His neck, back and shoulders ached from tension and pain, as he maintained a death grip on the controls, the plane shuddering every few seconds. Knowing that his crew may have to jump, Hogan tried to get the plane as close to the coast as possible, increasing their chance of a water rescue. His main concern was the injured. Could they survive the jump? He was afraid for Fletcher, but if he had to, he would place the parachute on the injured man, and hope for the best. _

_The flight seemed to move in slow motion. Although the altitude had dropped, the air coming through holes in the plane was ice-cold, and despite his suit, Hogan began to shiver. His distress worsened as it became more difficult to keep the plane level. He couldn't see the damaged wing which was on the right side of the plane, but his instruments and his instinct warned him that the wing was in worse shape than he thought. _

"_I need a report on the wing."_

_Several seconds of silence went by. The news was not good. "It's collapsed," Williamson said with a hint of tension in his voice._

"_All right." The plane, still losing altitude crossed the coastline. Hogan glanced at his instruments and made some quick calculations in his head. "Bail out! Everyone, bail!" he ordered as the plane's shuddering increased. He tried to stop the wobbling as the crew in the back was scurrying to help the injured get ready to jump. In case they didn't hear the order, Hogan rang the alarm._

_A noise at the back of the cockpit warned him of the approach of one of the crew. "Williamson, I told you to jump."_

"_I came to help with the captain, sir."_

"_It's too late. We're too low. He won't make it."_

"_I'll grab him, and hold him."_

_Hogan shook his head. "There's not enough time. I'm not losing you, too. I'm going to land this thing. I'll keep the plane steady. Go!"_

_Williamson reluctantly lowered himself out of the cockpit and jumped. Hogan looked out and thankfully spied eight chutes. He prayed that the injured men wouldn't hurt themselves any further in the landing, and then concentrated on making it to the airfield._

"_I'll get you home, Carl," he whispered, although at this point his confidence was low. _

Hogan got his co-pilot home, landing the plane on one wing and only two engines. As the ambulance drove Carl away to the base hospital, Hogan asked about the rest of his crew. Once informed that they had all been found, he was finally able to relax, although in the back of his mind, he wondered if there was anything he could have done better, anything he could have done to avoid the damage to his aircraft.

In the aftermath of this successful but costly mission, his safe landing was bittersweet. Two planes and twenty men in his squadron had failed to return to base, but his skill at bring his plane down was the talk of not only the airbase, but the nearby town for quite some time. It galled him that a bit of fancy flying overshadowed the sacrifices made by others, from the other squadron pilots willing to risk themselves and their crews for his sake, to the lost and injured men of the otherwise successful mission, to the ground crews that rushed in to a burning plane to help.

With that line of thought, Hogan decided that his men deserved the full story. So, the next morning, he gathered everyone in the barracks, and finally spoke about that mission.

"I guess you can say it was partly responsible for me being here," he said after telling the story, quickly and with few embellishments.

"How so, sir?" LeBeau asked.

"I got command of the 504th soon afterwards," Hogan said.

"I can see why!" Olsen commented with echoes of agreement from the other men in the barracks.

"Pilots made difficult landings every day," Hogan reminded them. "They still do."

"But you saved the captain's life, sir," Carter said. "He probably wouldn't have survived the jump. And you stayed, when you could have bailed."

Hogan remained quiet for a moment. "He was my responsibility. There was one more thing, I didn't tell you." He looked over at Kinch.

The radioman raised his eyebrows, and smiled. "We decided to keep it a secret from everyone. I was at the airfield when the plane landed," Kinch stated.

This was a surprise to the rest of the men. They all knew that Kinch and Hogan had somehow met at a base in England, some time before Hogan had taken command of the 504th, and that he had illegally let the sergeant ride on his plane several times as an observer… including the last mission over Hamburg.

"How come you never told us?" Newkirk elbowed the sergeant.

"Wasn't my place," Kinch answered in typical fashion. "But yeah, I saw the landing. I was there, making a delivery of electronic parts, when word came down that the colonel's plane was making an emergency landing. It was about two hours after everyone else had landed, and the whole base was watching. I stopped my truck and got out." He smiled. "What you don't know is that the plane overshot the runway, almost flipped and made a few 360's. The colonel kept that shot-up piece of metal intact in the air _and _on the ground. But as soon as it stopped, I ran like hell towards the plane."

"It was already smoking." Hogan sat down at the common room table and took a sip of coffee. "He helped pull us both out."

"Wait, there were plenty of other guys at the plane helping," Kinch countered.

"Yes, but you didn't have to be there."

Kinch shrugged. "Fate."

"I don't understand, colonel. Why the secrets?" asked LeBeau.

Hogan sighed. "It's complicated. I didn't enjoy being the ace that landed a plane on one wing. I never wanted the publicity. And once I got to the 504th, the men under my command were more interested in how I handled the present, not how I landed a plane in the past. I refused to give interviews. The brass was pretty upset with me for a while."

"I had no idea you never mentioned that flight to anyone in the camp. I guess the less publicity the better," the radioman stated. "Even here."

LeBeau walked over to his friend and gave him a pat on the back. "You should be proud that what you both accomplished."

"Until today, Kinch's role was our secret. There could have been ramifications," Hogan explained. "A lot of people were not happy that I got Kinch transferred to the 504th."

Before the men began asking more questions, the door opened, and a very tired Schultz waltzed in. "Raus, Raus. Get ready for…Oh, you're all here! And ready."

"Where else would we be?" Hogan handed the sergeant a chocolate bar.

"What's this for?" Schultz asked suspiciously.

"For being a good sport. And yes, Schultz, it's true. I did land a plane on one wing."

"You are a pilot." Schultz's eyes lit up.

Hogan nodded. "Schultz, I'll always think of you as a toy maker, first and foremost."

Schultz smiled. "Thank you, Colonel Hogan. You're a good friend. Even if you did shove me out of a plane."

* * *

General Biedenbender was responsible for shooting down Hogan's plane during a raid on Hamburg. (_Hogan Gives a Birthday Party_) Interesting note: according to the HH wikia, hhdotwikiadotcom, this episode takes place with the first two weeks of April, 1943. Hogan was probably shot down in a joint RAF/USAAF raid on July 28-29 1942

I hope I got most of the technical and historical details correct in the air battle sequence. I used what I learned from the web, the movie "12 O'clock High," and the TV series of the same name. The amount of research on the internet (as well as my own library) was so overwhelming, I decided to do the best I could and finish the chapter. Otherwise, I don't think it would ever be written.

The phrase was used in the film, "The Flying Tigers," and there was also a 1944 B & W film, titled "Wing and a Prayer."

I'm sure it would have been difficult for both Hogan and Kinch if a relationship was discovered.


End file.
